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<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75167 ***</div>

<div class='tnotes covernote'>

<p class='c000'><strong>Transcriber’s Note:</strong></p>

<p class='c000'>New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.</p>

</div>

<div class='titlepage'>

<div>
  <h1 class='c001'>BLACKWOOD’S<br> EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.<br> <span class='xlarge'><span class='sc'>No. DLXIX.&#8196; &#8196; &#8196; MARCH 1863.&#8196; &#8196; &#8196; Vol. XCIII.</span></span></h1>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 class='c002'>CONTENTS.</h2>
</div>

<table class='table0'>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'><span class='sc'>Caxtoniana.—Part XIV.,</span></td>
    <td class='c004'><a href='#Page_267'>267</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td class='c005' colspan='2'><span class='sc'>No. XIX.—Motive Power</span> (<em>concluded</em>)</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'><span class='sc'>Mrs Clifford’s Marriage.—Part I.</span>,</td>
    <td class='c004'><a href='#Page_284'>284</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'><span class='sc'>An English Village—in French</span>,</td>
    <td class='c004'><a href='#Page_301'>301</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'><span class='sc'>Lord Mackenzie’s Roman Law</span>,</td>
    <td class='c004'><a href='#Page_314'>314</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'><span class='sc'>The Peripatetic Politician—in Florence</span>,</td>
    <td class='c004'><a href='#Page_321'>321</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'><span class='sc'>The Frank in Scotland</span>,</td>
    <td class='c004'><a href='#Page_330'>330</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'><span class='sc'>Kinglake’s Invasion of the Crimea</span>,</td>
    <td class='c004'><a href='#Page_355'>355</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c003'><span class='sc'>The Opening of the Session</span>,</td>
    <td class='c004'><a href='#Page_384'>384</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c006'>
    <div>EDINBURGH:</div>
    <div>WILLIAM BLACKWOOD &#38; SONS, 45 GEORGE STREET.</div>
    <div>AND 37 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.</div>
    <div class='c007'><span class='small'><em>To whom all Communications (post paid) must be addressed.</em></span></div>
    <div class='c007'><span class='small'>SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.</span></div>
    <div class='c007'>PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.</div>
  </div>
</div>

</div>

<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_267'>267</span></div>
<div class='chapter ph1'>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c008'>
    <div>BLACKWOOD’S</div>
    <div>EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.</div>
    <div class='c007'><span class='xlarge'><span class='sc'>No. DLXIX.&#8196; &#8196; &#8196; MARCH 1863.&#8196; &#8196; &#8196; Vol. XCIII</span></span></div>
  </div>
</div>

</div>

<div>
  <h2 class='c002'>CAXTONIANA:<br> <span class='c009'>A SERIES OF ESSAYS ON LIFE, LITERATURE, AND MANNERS.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c006'>
    <div>By the Author of ‘The Caxton Family.’</div>
  </div>
</div>

<h3 class='c010'>PART XIV.</h3>
<h4 class='c010'><span class='fss'>NO. XIX.—MOTIVE POWER</span> (<em>concluded</em>).</h4>

<p class='c011'>The next day the atmosphere was
much cooler, refreshed by a heavy
shower that had fallen at dawn;
and when, not long after noon, Percival
and I, mounted on ponies
bred in the neighbouring forests,
were riding through the narrow
lanes towards the house we had
agreed to visit, we did not feel the
heat oppressive. It was a long excursion;
we rode slowly, and the
distance was about sixteen miles.</p>

<p class='c012'>We arrived at last at a little
hamlet remote from the highroads.
The cottages, though old-fashioned,
were singularly neat and trim—flower-plots
before them, and small
gardens for kitchen use behind. A
very ancient church, with its parsonage,
backed the broad village-green;
and opposite the green stood
one of those small quaint manor-houses
which satisfied the pride of
our squires two hundred years ago.
On a wide garden-lawn in front
were old yew-trees cut into fantastic
figures of pyramids and obelisks
and birds and animals; beyond
the lawn, on a levelled platform
immediately before the house, was
a small garden, with a sundial, and
a summer-house or pavilion of the
date of William III., when buildings
of that kind, for a short time,
became the fashionable appendage
to country-houses, frequently decorated
inside with musical trophies,
as if built for a music-room;
but, I suspect, more generally devoted
to wine and pipes by the host
and his male friends. At the rear
of the house stretched an ample
range of farm-buildings in very
good repair and order, the whole
situated on the side of a hill, sufficiently
high to command an extensive
prospect, bounded at the farthest
distance by the sea, yet not
so high as to lose the screen of hills,
crested by young plantations of fir
and larch; while their midmost
slopes were, in part, still abandoned
to sheep-walks; in part,
brought (evidently of late) into cultivation;
and farther down, amid the
richer pastures that dipped into the
valley, goodly herds of cattle indolently
grazed or drowsily reposed.</p>

<p class='c012'>We dismounted at the white
garden-gate. A man ran out from
the farmyard and took our ponies;
evidently a familiar acquaintance of
Tracey’s, for he said heartily, “that
he was glad to see his honour looking
so well,” and volunteered a
promise that the ponies should be
well rubbed down, and fed. “Master
was at home; we should find
him in the orchard swinging Miss
Lucy.”</p>

<p class='c012'>So, instead of entering the house,
Tracey, who knew all its ways,
took me round to the other side,
and we came into one of those
venerable orchards which carry the
thought back to the early day when
the orchard was, in truth, the
garden.</p>

<p class='c012'>A child’s musical laugh guided
us through the lines of heavy-laden
apple-trees to the spot where the
once famous prizeman—the once
brilliant political thinker—was now
content to gratify the instinctive
desire <i><span lang="la">tentare aërias vias</span></i>—in the
pastime of an infant.</p>

<p class='c012'>He was so absorbed in his occupation
that he did not hear or
observe us till we were close at his
side. Then, after carefully arresting
the swing, and tenderly taking
out the little girl, he shook hands
with Percival; and when the ceremony
of mutual introduction was
briefly concluded, extended the
same courtesy to myself.</p>

<p class='c012'>Gray was a man in the full force
of middle life, with a complexion
that seemed to have been originally
fair and delicate, but had become
bronzed and hardened by habitual
exposure to morning breezes and
noonday suns. He had a clear
bright blue eye, and a countenance
that only failed of being handsome
by that length and straightness of
line between nostril and upper lip,
which is said by physiognomists to
be significant of firmness and decision.
The whole expression of his
face, though frank and manly, was,
however, rather sweet than harsh;
and he had one of those rare voices
which almost in themselves secure
success to a public speaker—distinct
and clear, even in its lowest
tone, as a silvery bell.</p>

<p class='c012'>I think much of a man’s nature
is shown by the way in which he
shakes hands. I doubt if any
worldly student of Chesterfieldian
manners can ever acquire the art of
that everyday salutation, if it be
not inborn in the kindness, loyalty,
and warmth of his native disposition.
I have known many a great
man who lays himself out to be
popular, who can school his smile
to fascinating sweetness, his voice
to persuasive melody, but who
chills or steels your heart against
him the moment he shakes hands
with you.</p>

<p class='c012'>But there is a cordial clasp which
shows warmth of impulse, unhesitating
truth, and even power of
character—a clasp which recalls the
classic trust in the “faith of the
right hand.”</p>

<p class='c012'>And the clasp of Hastings Gray’s
hand at once propitiated me in his
favour. While he and I exchanged
the few words with which acquaintance
commences, Percival had replaced
Miss Lucy in the swing, and
had taken the father’s post. Lucy,
before disappointed at the cessation
of her amusement, felt now that she
was receiving a compliment, which
she must not abuse too far; so she
very soon, of her own accord, unselfishly
asked to be let down, and
we all walked back towards the
house.</p>

<p class='c012'>“You will dine with us, I hope,”
said Gray. “I know when you
come at this hour, Sir Percival, that
you always meditate giving us that
pleasure.” (Turning to me,) “It is
now half-past three, we dine at four
o’clock, and that early hour gives
you time to rest, and ride back in
the cool of the evening.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“My dear Gray,” answered Percival,
“I accept your invitation for
myself and my friend. I foresaw
you would ask us, and left word at
home that we were not to be waited
for. Where is Mrs Gray?”</p>

<p class='c012'>“I suspect that she is about some
of those household matters which
interest a farmer’s wife. Lucy, run
and tell your mamma that these
gentlemen will dine with us.”</p>

<p class='c012'>Lucy scampered off.</p>

<p class='c012'>“The fact is,” said Tracey, “that
we have a problem to submit to
you. You know how frequently I
come to you for a hint when something
puzzles me. But we can defer
that knotty subject till we adjourn,
as usual, to wine and fruit in your
summer-house. Your eldest boy
is at home for the holidays?”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Not at home, though it is his
holidays. He is now fifteen, and
he and a school friend of his are
travelling on foot into Cornwall.
Nothing, I think, fits boys better
for life than those hardy excursions
in which they must depend on
themselves, shift for themselves,
think for themselves.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“I daresay you are right,” said
Tracey; “the earlier each of us
human beings forms himself into an
individual God’s creature, distinct
from the <i><span lang="la">servum pecus</span></i>, the better
chance he has of acquiring originality
of mind and dignity of character.
And your other children?”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Oh, my two younger boys I
teach at home, and one little girl—I
play with.” Here addressing me,
Gray asked “If I farmed?”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Yes,” said I, “but very much
as <i><span lang="fr">les Rois Fainéants</span></i> reigned. My
bailiff is my <i><span lang="fr">Maire du Palais</span></i>. I
hope, therefore, that our friend Sir
Percival will not wound my feelings
as a lover of Nature by accusing
me of wooing her for the sake
of her turnips.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Ah!” said Gray, smiling, “Sir
Percival, I know, holds to the doctrine
that the only pure love of
Nature is the æsthetic; and looks
upon the intimate connection which
the husbandman forms with her
as a cold-blooded <i><span lang="fr">mariage de convenance</span></i>.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“I confess,” answered Percival,
“that I agree with the great German
philosopher, that the love of
Nature is pure in proportion as the
delight in her companionship is
unmixed with any idea of the gain
she can give us. But a pure love
may be a very sterile affection; and
a <i><span lang="fr">mariage de convenance</span></i> may be
prolific in very fine offspring. I
concede to you, therefore, that the
world is bettered by the practical
uses to which Nature has been put
by those who wooed her for the
sake of her dower: and I no more
commend to the imitation of others
my abstract æsthetic affection for
her abstract æsthetic beauty, than
I would commend Petrarch’s poetical
passion for Laura to the general
adoption of lovers. I give you,
then, gentlemen farmers, full permission
to woo Nature for the sake
of her turnips. Our mutton is all
the better for it.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“And that is no small consideration,”
said Gray. “If I had gazed
on my sheep-walks with the divine
æsthetic eye, and without one forethought
of the profit they might
bring me, I should not already
have converted 200 out of the 1000
acres I possess into land that would
let at 30s. per acre, where formerly
it let at 5s. But, with all submission
to the great German philosopher, I
don’t think I love Nature the less
because of the benefits with which
she repays the pains I have taken
to conciliate her favour. If, thanks
to her, I can give a better education
to my boys, and secure a
modest provision for my girl, is it
the property of gratitude to destroy
or to increase affection? But you
see, sir, there is this difference between
Sir Percival and myself:—He
has had no motive in improving
Nature for her positive uses, and
therefore he has been contented
with giving her a prettier robe.
He loves her as a <i><span lang="fr">grand seigneur</span></i>
loves his mistress. I love her as a
man loves the helpmate who assists
his toils. According as in rural
life my mind could find not repose,
but occupation—according as that
occupation was compatible with
such prudent regard to fortune as a
man owes to the children he brings
into the world—my choice of life
would be a right or a wrong one.
In short, I find in the cultivation
of Nature my business as well as
my pleasure. I have a motive for
the business which does not diminish
my taste for the pleasure.”</p>

<p class='c012'>Tracey and I exchanged looks.
So, then, here was a motive for
activity. But why was the motive
towards activity in pursuits requiring
so little of the intellect for
which Gray had been characterised,
and so little of the knowledge
which his youth had acquired, so
much stronger than the motive towards
a career which proffered an
incalculably larger scope for his
powers? Here, there was no want
of energy—here, there had been no
philosophical disdain of ambition—here,
no great wealth leaving no
stimulant to desires—no niggard
poverty paralysing the sinews of
hope. The choice of retirement
had been made in the full vigour of
a life trained from boyhood to the
exercises that discipline the wrestlers
for renown.</p>

<p class='c012'>While I was thus musing, Gray
led the way towards the farmyard,
and on reaching it said to
me,—</p>

<p class='c012'>“Since you do farm, if only by
deputy, I must show you the sheep
with which I hope to win the first
prize at our agricultural show in
September.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“So you still care for prizes?”
said I: “the love of fame is not
dead within your breast.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Certainly not; ‘Pride attends
us still.’ I am very proud of the
prizes I have already won; last
year for my wurzel—the year before,
for the cow I bred on my own
pastures.”</p>

<p class='c012'>We crossed the farmyard, and
arrived at the covered sheep-pens.
I thought I had never seen finer
sheep than those which Gray
showed me with visible triumph.
Then we two conversed with much
animation upon the pros and cons
in favour of stall-feeding <em>versus</em> free
grazing, while Tracey amused himself,
first in trying to conciliate a
great dog, luckily for him chained
up in the adjoining yard, and next,
in favouring the escape of a mouse
who had incautiously quitted the
barn, and ventured within reach of
a motherly hen, who seemed to regard
it as a monster intent on her
chicks.</p>

<p class='c012'>Reaching the house, Gray conducted
us up a flight of oak stairs—picturesque
in its homely old-fashioned
way—with wide landing-place,
adorned by a blue china jar,
filled with <em>pot-pourri</em>, and by a
tall clock (one of Tompion’s, now
rare), in walnut-wood case; consigning
us each to a separate chamber,
to refresh ourselves by those
simple ablutions, with which, even
in rustic retirements, civilised Englishmen
preface the hospitable
rites of Ceres and Bacchus.</p>

<p class='c012'>The room in which I found myself
was one of those never seen
out of England, and only there in
unpretending country-houses which
have escaped the innovating tastes
of fashion. A bedstead of the time
of George I., with mahogany fluted
columns and panels at the bedhead,
dark and polished, decorated
by huge watch-pockets of some
great-grandmother’s embroidery,
white spotless curtains, the walls
in panel, also painted white, and
covered in part with framed engravings
a century old. A large
high screen, separating the washstand
from the rest of the room,
made lively by old caricatures and
prints, doubtless the handiwork of
female hands long stilled. A sweet,
not strong, odour of dried lavender
escaped from a chest of drawers,
polished as bright as the bedstead.
The small lattice-paned window
opened to the fresh air; the woodbine
framing it all round from
without; amongst the woodbine
the low hum of bees. A room for
early sleep and cheerful rising with
the eastern sun, which the window
faced.</p>

<p class='c012'>Tracey came into my room while
I was still looking out of the casement,
gazing on the little gardenplot
without, bright with stocks
and pinks and heartsease, and said,
“Well, you see £600 a-year can
suffice to arrest a clever man’s ambition.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“I suspect,” answered I, “that
the ambition is not arrested but
turned aside to the object of doubling
the £600 a-year. Neither ambition
nor the desire of gain is dead
in that farmyard.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“We shall cross-question our
host after dinner,” answered Tracey;
“meanwhile let me conduct you to
the dining-room. A pretty place
this, in its way, is it not?”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Very,” said I, with enthusiasm.
“Could you not live as happily
here as in your own brilliant villa?”</p>

<p class='c012'>“No, not quite, but still happily.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Why not quite?”</p>

<p class='c012'>“First, because there is nothing
within or without the house which
one could attempt to improve, unless
by destroying the whole character
of what is so good in its way;
secondly, where could I put my
Claudes and Turners? where my
statues? where, oh where, my books?
where, in short, the furniture of
Man’s mind?”</p>

<p class='c012'>I made no answer, for the dinner-bell
rang loud, and we went down
at once into the dining-room—a
quaint room, scarcely touched since
the date of William III. A high
and heavy dado of dark oak, the
rest of the walls in Dutch stamped
leather, still bright and fresh; a
high mantelpiece, also of oak, with
a very indifferent picture of still
life let into the upper panel; arched
recesses on either side, receptacles
for china and tall drinking-glasses;
heavy chairs, with crests inlaid on
their ponderous backs, and faded
needlework on their ample seats;—all,
however, speaking of comfort
and home, and solid though unassuming
prosperity. Gray had
changed his rude morning dress,
and introduced me to his wife with
an evident husbandlike pride. Mrs
Gray was still very pretty; in her
youth she must have been prettier
even than Clara Thornhill, and
though very plainly dressed, still it
was the dress of a gentlewoman.
There was intelligence, but soft
timid intelligence, in her dark hazel
eyes and broad candid forehead.
I soon saw, however, that she was
painfully shy, and not at all willing
to take her share in the expense of
conversation. But with Tracey she
was more at her ease than with a
stranger, and I thanked him inwardly
for coming to my relief, as
I was vainly endeavouring to extract
from her lips more than a
murmured monosyllable.</p>

<p class='c012'>The dinner, however, passed off
very pleasantly. Simple old English
fare—plenty of it—excellent of
its kind. Tracey was the chief
talker, and made himself so entertaining,
that at last even Mrs Gray’s
shyness wore away, and I discovered
that she had a well-informed graceful
mind, constitutionally cheerful,
as was evidenced by the blithe
music of her low but happy laugh.</p>

<p class='c012'>The dinner over, we adjourned,
as Percival had proposed, to the
summer-house. There we found
the table spread with fruits and
wine, of which last the port was
superb; no better could be dragged
from the bins of a college, or blush
on the board of a prelate. Mrs
Gray, however, deserted us, but we
now and then caught sight of her
in the garden without, playing gaily
with her children—two fine little
boys, and Lucy, who seemed to
have her own way with them all, as
she ought—the youngest child, the
only girl—justifiably papa’s pet, for
she was the one most like her
mother.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Gray,” said Tracey, “my friend
and I have had some philosophical
disputes, which we cannot decide
to our own satisfaction, on the
reasons why some men do so much
more in life than other men, without
having any apparent intellectual
advantage over those who are contented
to be obscure. We have
both hit on a clue to the cause, in
what we call motive power. But
what this motive power really is,
and why it should fail in some men
and be so strong in others, is matter
of perplexity, at least to me, and I
fancy my friend himself is not much
more enlightened therein than I am.
So we have both come here to hear
what you have to say—you, who
certainly had motive enough for
ambitious purposes when you swept
away so many academical prizes—when
you rushed into speech and
into print, and cast your bold eye
on St Stephen’s. And now, what
has become of that motive power?
Is it all put into prizes for root-crops
and sheep?”</p>

<p class='c012'>“As to myself,” answered Gray,
passing the wine, “I can give very
clear explanations. I am of a gentleman’s
family, but the son of a
very poor curate. Luckily for me,
we lived close by an excellent grammar-school,
at which I obtained a
free admission. From the first day
I entered, I knew that my poor
father, bent on making me a scholar,
counted on my exertions not
only for my own livelihood, but for
a provision for my mother should
she survive him. Here was motive
enough to supply motive power.
I succeeded in competition with
rivals at school, and success added
to the strength of the motive power.
Our county member, on whose estate
I was born, took a kindly interest in
me, and gave me leave, when I quitted
school, as head boy, to come daily
to his house and share the studies
of his son, who was being prepared
for the university by a private tutor,
eminent as a scholar and admirable
as a teacher. Thus I went
up to college not only full of hope
(in itself a motive power, though,
of itself, an unsafe one), but of a
hope so sustained that it became
resolution, by the knowledge that
to maintain me at the university
my parents were almost literally
starving themselves. This suffices
to explain whatever energy and application
I devoted to my academical
career. At last I obtained my
fellowship; the income of that I
shared with my parents; but if I
died before them the income would
die also—a fresh motive power towards
a struggle for fortune in the
Great World. I took up politics,
I confess it very frankly, as a profession
rather than a creed; it was
the shortest road to fame, and,
with prudence, perhaps to pecuniary
competence. If I succeeded in
Parliament I might obtain a living
for my father, or some public situation
for myself not dependent on
the fluctuations of party. A very
high political ambition was denied
me by the penury of circumstance.
A man must have good means of
his own who aspires to rank among
party chiefs. I knew I was but a
political adventurer, that I could
only be so considered; and had it
not been for my private motive
power, I should have been ashamed
of my public one. As it was, my
scholarly pride was secretly chafed
at the thought that I was carrying
into the affairs of state the greed of
trade. Suddenly, most unexpectedly,
this estate was bequeathed to
me. You large proprietors will smile
when I say that we had always regarded
the Grays of Oakden Hall
with venerating pride; they were
the head of our branch of the clan.
My father had seen this place in
his boyhood; the remembrance of
it dwelt on his mind as the unequivocal
witness of his dignity as a
gentleman born. He came from
the same stock as the Grays of
Oakden, who had lived on the land
for more than three centuries, entitled
to call themselves squires.
The relationship was very distant,
still it existed. But a dream that
so great a place as Oakden Hall,
with its 1000 acres, should ever
pass to his son—no, my father
thought it much more likely that
his son might be prime minister!
John Gray of Oakden had never
taken the least notice of us, except
that, when I won the Pitt scholarship,
he sent me a fine turkey, labelled
‘From John Gray, Esq. of
Oakden.’ This present I acknowledged,
but John Gray never answered
my letter. Just at that time,
however, as appears by the date, he
re-made his will, and placed me as
remainder-man in case of the deaths,
without issue, of two nearer relations,
both nephews. These young
men died unmarried—the one of
rheumatic fever, a few months before
old Gray’s decease; the other,
two weeks after it; poor fellow, he
was thrown from his horse and
killed on the spot. So, unexpectedly,
I came into this property.
Soon afterwards I married. The
possession of land is a great tranquilliser
to a restless spirit, and a
happy marriage is as sedative as
potent. Poverty is a spur to action.
Great wealth, on the other hand,
not unnaturally tends to the desire
of display, and in free countries
often to the rivalry for political
power. The golden mean is proverbially
the condition most favourable
to content, and content is the
antidote to ambition. Mine was the
golden mean! Other influences
of pride and affection contributed
to keep me still. Of pride; for
was I not really a greater man here,
upon my ancestral acres and my
few yearly hundreds, than as a political
aspirant, who must commence
his career by being a political dependant?
How rich I felt here! how
poor I should be in London! How
inevitably, in the daily expenses of
a metropolitan life, and in the costs
of elections (should I rise beyond
being a mere nominee), I must become
needy and involved! So much
for the influence of pride. Now
for the influence of affection; my
dear wife had never been out of
these rural shades among which
she was born. She is of a nature
singularly timid, sensitive, and retiring.
The idea of that society to
which a political career would have
led me terrified her. I loved her
the better for desiring no companionship
but mine. In fine, my
desires halted at once on these
turfs; the Attraction of the Earth,
of which I had a share, prevailed;
the motive power stopped here.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“You have never regretted your
choice?” said Tracey.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Certainly not; I congratulate
myself on it more and more every
year. For, after all, here I have
ample occupation and a creditable
career. I have improved my fortune,
instead of wasting it. I have
a fixed, acknowledged, instead of
an unsettled, equivocal position. I
am an authority on many rural subjects
of interest besides those of
husbandry. I am an active magistrate;
and, as I know a little of
the law, I am the habitual arbiter
upon all the disputes in the neighbourhood.
I employ here with satisfaction,
and not without some
dignity, the energies which, in the
great world, would have bought any
reputation I might have gained at
the price of habitual pain and frequent
mortification.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Then,” said I, “you do not
think that a saying of Dr Arnold’s,
which I quoted to Tracey as no
less applicable to men than to boys,
is altogether a true one—viz., that
the difference between boys, as regards
the power of acquiring distinction,
is not so much in talent as
in energy; you retain the energies
that once raised you to public distinction,
but you no longer apply
them to the same object.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“I believe that Dr Arnold, if he
be quoted correctly, spoke only half
the truth. One difference between
boy and boy or man and man, no
doubt, is energy; but for great
achievements or fame there must
be also application—viz., every energy
concentred on one definite
point, and disciplined to strain towards
it by patient habit. My
energy, such as it is, would not
have brought my sheep-walks into
profitable cultivation if the energy
had not been accompanied with devoted
application to the business.
And it is astonishing how, when
the energy is constantly applied towards
one settled aim—astonishing,
I say—how invention is kindled out
of it. Thus, in many a quiet solitary
morning’s walk round my farm,
some new idea, some hint of improvement
or contrivance, occurs to
me; this I ponder and meditate
upon till it takes the shape of experiment.
I presume that it is so
with poet, artist, orator, or statesman.
His mind is habituated to
apply itself to definite subjects of
observation and reflection, and out
of this habitual musing thereon, involuntarily
spring the happy originalities
of thinking which are called
his ‘inspirations.’”</p>

<p class='c012'>“One word more,” said I.
“Do you consider, then, that which
makes a man devote himself to
fame or ambition is a motive power
of which he himself is conscious?”</p>

<p class='c012'>“No; not always. I imagine
that most men entering on some
career are originally impelled towards
it by a motive which, at the
time, they seldom take the trouble
to analyse or even to detect. They
would at once see what that motive
was if early in the career it was
withdrawn. In a majority of cases
it is the <i><span lang="la">res angusta</span></i>, yet not poverty
in itself, but a poverty disproportioned
to the birth, or station, or
tastes, or intellectual culture of the
aspirant. Thus, the peasant or operative
rarely feels in his poverty a
motive power towards distinction
out of his craft; but the younger
son of a gentleman does feel that
motive power. And hence a very
large proportion of those who in
various ways have gained fame,
have been the cadets of a gentleman’s
family, or the sons of poor
clergymen, sometimes of farmers
and tradesmen, who have given
them an education beyond the average
of their class. Other motive
powers towards fame have been
sometimes in ambition, sometimes
in love; sometimes in a great sorrow,
from which a strong mind
sought to wrest itself; sometimes
even in things that would appear
frivolous to a philosopher. I knew
a young man, of no great talents,
but of keen vanity and great resolution
and force of character, who,
as a child, had been impressed with
envy of the red ribbon which his
uncle wore as Knight of the Bath.
From his infancy he determined
some day or other to win a red
ribbon for himself. He did so at
last, and in trying to do so became
famous.</p>

<p class='c012'>“In great commercial communities
a distinction is given to successful
trade, so that the motive
power of youthful talent nourished
in such societies is mostly concentred
on gain, not through avarice,
but through the love of approbation
or esteem. Thus, it is noticeable
that our great manufacturing
towns, where energy and application
abound, have not contributed
their proportionate quota of men
distinguished in arts or sciences
(except the mechanical), or polite
letters, or the learned professions.
In rural districts, on the contrary,
the desire of gain is not associated
with the desire of honour and distinction,
and therefore, in them, the
youth early coveting fame strives
for it in other channels than those
of gain. But whatever the original
motive power, if it has led to a
continuous habit of the mind, and
is not withdrawn before that habit
becomes a second nature, the habit
will continue after the motive power
has either wholly ceased or become
very faint, as the famous scribbling
Spanish cardinal is said, in popular
legends, to have continued to write
on after he himself was dead. Thus,
a man who has acquired the obstinate
habit of labouring for the public
originally from an enthusiastic
estimate of the value of public applause,
may, later, conceive a great
contempt for the public, and, in
sincere cynicism, become wholly indifferent
to its praise or its censure,
and yet, like Swift, go on as
long as the brain can retain faithful
impressions and perform its normal
functions, writing for the public
he so disdains. Thus many a
statesman, wearied and worn, satisfied
of the hollowness of political
ambition, and no longer enjoying
its rewards, sighing for retirement
and repose, nevertheless continues
to wear his harness. Habit has
tyrannised over all his actions;
break the habit, and the thread of
his life snaps with it!</p>

<p class='c012'>“Lastly, however, I am by no
means sure that there is not in
some few natures an inborn irresistible
activity, a constitutional
attraction between the one mind
and the human species, which requires
no special, separate motive
power from without to set it into
those movements which, perforce,
lead to fame. I mean those men
to whom we at once accord the
faculty which escapes all satisfactory
metaphysical definition—<span class='sc'>Ingenium</span>;—viz.,
the inborn spirit which
we call genius.</p>

<p class='c012'>“And in <em>these</em> natures, whatever
the motive power that in the first
instance urged them on, if at any
stage, however early, that motive
power be withdrawn, some other
one will speedily replace it. Through
them Providence mysteriously acts
on the whole world, and their genius
while on earth is one of Its
most visible ministrants. But genius
is the exceptional phenomenon
in human nature; and in examining
the ordinary laws that influence
human minds we have no measurement
and no scales for portents.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“There is, however,” said Tracey,
“one motive power towards careers
of public utility which you have
not mentioned, but the thought of
which often haunts me in rebuke
of my own inertness,—I mean,
quite apart from any object of vanity
or ambition, the sense of our
own duty to mankind; and hence
the devotion to public uses of whatever
talents have been given to us—not
to hide under a bushel.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“I do not think,” answered Gray,
“that when a man feels he is doing
good in his own way he need reproach
himself that he is not doing
good in some other way to which
he is not urged by special duty, and
from which he is repelled by constitutional
temperament. I do not,
for instance, see that because you
have a very large fortune you are
morally obliged to keep correspondent
establishments, and adopt a
mode of life hostile to your tastes;
you sufficiently discharge the duties
of wealth if the fair proportion of
your income go to objects of well-considered
benevolence and purposes
not unproductive to the community.
Nor can I think that I,
who possess but a very moderate
fortune, am morally called upon to
strive for its increase in the many
good speculations which life in a
capital may offer to an eager mind,
provided always that I do nevertheless
remember that I have children,
to whose future provision and
wellbeing some modest augmentations
of my fortune would be desirable.
In improving my land for
their benefit, I may say also that I
add, however trivially, to the wealth
of the country. Let me hope that
the trite saying is true, that ‘he
who makes two blades of corn grow
where one grew before,’ is a benefactor
to his race. So with mental
wealth: surely it is permitted to us
to invest and expend it within that
sphere most suited to those idiosyncrasies,
the adherence to which
constitutes our moral health. I do
not, with the philosopher, condemn
the man who, irresistibly impelled
towards the pursuit of honours and
power, persuades himself that he is
toiling for the public good when he
is but gratifying his personal ambition;—probably
he is a better
man thus acting in conformity with
his own nature, than he would be
if placed beyond all temptation in
Plato’s cave. Nor, on the other
hand, can I think that a man of the
highest faculties and the largest
attainments, who has arrived at a
sincere disdain of power or honours,
would be a better man if he were
tyrannically forced to pursue the
objects from which his temperament
recoils, upon the plea that
he was thus promoting the public
welfare. No doubt, in every city,
town, street, and lane, there are
bustling, officious, restless persons,
who thrust themselves into public
concerns, with a loud declaration
that they are animated only by the
desire of public good; they mistake
their fidgetiness for philanthropy.
Not a bubble company can be
started, but what it is with a programme
that its direct object is the
public benefit, and the ten per cent
promised to the shareholders is but
a secondary consideration. Who
believes in the sincerity of that announcement?
In fine, according
both to religion and to philosophy,
virtue is the highest end of man’s
endeavour; but virtue is wholly
independent of the popular shout
or the lictor’s fasces. Virtue is the
same, whether with or without the
laurel crown or the curule chair.
Honours do not sully it, but obscurity
does not degrade. He who
is truthful, just, merciful, and kindly,
does his duty to his race, and
fulfils his great end in creation, no
matter whether the rays of his life
are not visibly beheld beyond the
walls of his household, or whether
they strike the ends of the earth;
for every human soul is a world
complete and integral, storing its
own ultimate uses and destinies
within itself; viewed only for a
brief while, in its rising on the
gaze of earth; pressing onward in
its orbit amidst the infinite, when,
snatched from our eyes, we say, ‘It
has passed away!’ And as every
star, however small it seem to us
from the distance at which it shines,
contributes to the health of our atmosphere,
so every soul, pure and
bright in itself, however far from
our dwelling, however unremarked
by our vision, contributes to the
wellbeing of the social system in
which it moves, and, in its privacy,
is part and parcel of the public
weal.”</p>

<p class='c012'>Shading my face with my hand,
I remained some moments musing
after Gray’s voice had ceased. Then
looking up, I saw so pleased and
grateful a smile upon Percival
Tracey’s countenance, that I checked
the reply by which I had intended
to submit a view of the subject in
discussion somewhat different from
that which Gray had taken from
the Portico of the Stoics. Why
should I attempt to mar whatever
satisfaction Percival’s reason or conscience
had found in our host’s argument?
His tree of life was too
firmly set for the bias of its stem
to swerve in any new direction towards
light and air. Let it continue
to rejoice in such light and
such air as was vouchsafed to the
site on which it had taken root.
Evening, too, now drew in, and we
had a long ride before us. A little
while after, we had bid adieu to
Oakden Hall, and were once more
threading our way through the
green and solitary lanes.</p>

<p class='c012'>We conversed but little for the
first five or six miles. I was revolving
what I had heard, and considering
how each man’s reasoning
moulds itself into excuse or applause
for the course of life which
he adopts. Percival’s mind was
employed in other thoughts, as became
clear when he thus spoke:—</p>

<p class='c012'>“Do you think, my dear friend,
that you could spare me a week or
two longer? It would be a charity
to me if you could, for I expect,
after to-morrow, to lose my young
artist, and, alas! also the Thornhills.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“How! The Thornhills? So
soon!”</p>

<p class='c012'>“I count on receiving to-morrow
the formal announcement of Henry’s
promotion and exchange into
the regiment he so desires to enter,
with the orders to join it abroad at
once. Clara, I know, will not stay
here; she will be with her husband
till he sails, and after his departure
will take her abode with his widowed
mother. I shall miss them
much. But Thornhill feels that he
is wasting his life here; and so—well—I
have acted for the best.
With respect to the artist, this
morning I received a letter from
my old friend Lord ——. He is
going into Italy next week; he
wishes for some views of Italian
scenery for a villa he has lately
bought, and will take Bourke with
him, on my recommendation, leaving
him ultimately at Rome. Lord ——‘s
friendship and countenance
will be of immense advantage to
the young painter, and obtain him
many orders. I have to break it to
Bourke this evening, and he will,
no doubt, quit me to-morrow to
take leave of his family. For myself,
as I always feel somewhat
melancholy in remaining on the
same spot after friends depart from
it, I propose going to Bellevue,
where I have a small yacht. It is
glorious weather for sea excursions.
Come with me, my dear friend!
The fresh breezes will do you good;
and we shall have leisure for talk
on all the subjects which both of
us love to explore and guess at.”</p>

<p class='c012'>No proposition could be more
alluring to me. My recent intercourse
with Tracey had renewed
all the affection and interest with
which he had inspired my youth.
My health and spirits had been
already sensibly improved by my
brief holiday, and an excursion at
sea had been the special advice of
my medical attendant. I hesitated
a moment. Nothing called me
back to London except public business,
and, in that, I foresaw but
the bare chance of a motion in
Parliament which stood on the
papers for the next day; but my
letters had assured me that this
motion was generally expected to
be withdrawn or postponed.</p>

<p class='c012'>So I accepted the invitation
gladly, provided nothing unforeseen
should interfere with it.</p>

<p class='c012'>Pleased by my cordial assent,
Tracey’s talk now flowed forth with
genial animation. He described
his villa overhanging the sea, with
its covered walks to the solitary
beach—the many objects of interest
and landscapes of picturesque
beauty within reach of easy rides,
on days in which the yacht might
not tempt us. I listened with the
delight of a schoolboy, to whom
some good-natured kinsman paints
the luxuries of a home at which he
invites the schoolboy to spend the
vacation.</p>

<p class='c012'>By little and little our conversation
glided back to our young past,
and thence to those dreams, nourished
ever by the young;—love and
romance, and home brightened by
warmer beams than glow in the
smile of sober friendship. How the
talk took this direction I know not;
perhaps by unconscious association,
as the moon rose above the forest-hills,
with the love-star by her side.
And, thus conversing, Tracey for
the first time alluded to that single
passion which had vexed the smooth
river of his life—and which, thanks
to Lady Gertrude, was already,
though vaguely, known to me.</p>

<p class='c012'>“It was,” said he, “just such a
summer night as this, and, though
in a foreign country, amidst scenes
of which these woodland hills remind
me, that the world seemed to
me to have changed into a Fairyland;
and, looking into my heart,
I said to myself, ‘This, then, is—love.’
And a little while after, on
such a night, and under such a
moon, and amidst such hills and
groves, the world seemed blighted
into a desert—life to be evermore
without hope or object; and, looking
again into my heart, I said,
‘This, then, is love denied!’”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Alas!” answered I, “there are
few men in whose lives there is not
some secret memoir of an affection
thwarted; but rarely indeed does
an affection thwarted leave a permanent
influence on the after-destinies
of a man’s life. On that
question I meditate an essay, which,
if ever printed, I will send to you.”</p>

<p class='c012'>I said this, wishing to draw him
on, and expecting him to contradict
my assertion as to the enduring influence
of a disappointed love. He
mused a moment or so in silence,
and then said, “Well, perhaps so;
an unhappy love may not permanently
affect our after-destinies, still
it colours our after-thoughts. It is
strange that I should have only seen,
throughout my long and various
existence, one woman whom I could
have wooed as my wife—one woman
in whose presence I felt as if
I were born for her and she for
me.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“May I ask you what was her
peculiar charm in your eyes; or, if
you permit me to ask, can you explain
it?”</p>

<p class='c012'>“No doubt,” answered Tracey,
“much must be ascribed to the
character of her beauty, which realised
the type I had formed to myself
from boyhood of womanly loveliness
in form and face, and much
also to a mind with which a man,
however cultivated, could hold equal
commune. But to me her predominating
attraction was in a simple,
unassuming nobleness of sentiment—a
truthful, loyal, devoted, self-sacrificing
nature. In her society I
felt myself purified, exalted, as if
in the presence of an angel. But
enough of this. I am resigned to
my loss, and have long since hung
my votive tablet in the shrine of
‘Time the Consoler.’”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Forgive me if I am intrusive;
but did she know that you loved
her?”</p>

<p class='c012'>“I cannot say; probably most
women discover if they are loved;
but I rejoice to think that I never
told her so.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Would she have rejected you if
you had?”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Yes, unhesitatingly; her word
was plighted to another. And
though she would not, for the man
to whom she had betrothed herself,
have left her father alone in poverty
and exile, she would never have
married any one else.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“You believe, then, that she
loved your rival with a heart that
could not change?”</p>

<p class='c012'>Tracey did not immediately reply.
At last he said, “I believe this—that
when scarcely out of girlhood,
she considered herself engaged to
be one man’s wife, or for ever single.
And if, in the course of time, and
in length of absence, she could have
detected in her heart the growth of
a single thought unfaithful to her
troth, she would have plucked it
forth and cast it from her as firmly
as if already a wedded wife, with
her husband’s honour in her charge.
She was one of those women with
whom man’s trust is for ever safe,
and to whom a love at variance with
plighted troth is an impossibility.
So, she lives in my thoughts still,
as I saw her last, five-and-twenty
years ago, unalterable in her youth
and beauty. And I have been as
true to her hallowed remembrance
as she was true to her maiden vows.
May I never see her again on earth!
Her or her likeness I may find
amidst the stars.” “No,” he added,
in a lighter and cheerier tone—“No;
I do not think that my actual
destinies, my ways of life here
below, have been affected by her
loss. Had I won her, I can scarcely
conceive that I should have become
more tempted to ambition or
less enamoured of home. Still,
whatever leaves so deep a furrow in
a man’s heart cannot be meant in
vain. Where the ploughshare cuts,
there the seed is sown, and there
later the corn will spring. In a
word, I believe that everything of
moment which befalls us in this
life—which occasions us some great
sorrow—for which, in this life, we
see not the uses—has, nevertheless,
its definite object, and that that
object will be visible on the other
side of the grave. It may seem but
a barren grief in the history of a
life—it may prove a fruitful joy in
the history of a soul. For if nothing
in this world is accident,
surely all that which affects the
only creature upon earth to whom
immortality is announced, must
have a distinct and definite purpose,
often not developed till immortality
begins.”</p>

<p class='c012'>Here we had entered on the wide
spaces of the park. The deer and
the kine were asleep on the silvered
grass, or under the shade of the
quiet trees. Now, as we cleared a
beech-grove, we saw the lights
gleaming from the windows of the
house, and the moon, at her full,
resting still over the peaceful housetop!
Truly had Percival said,
“That there are trains of thought
set in motion by the stars which
are dormant in the glare of the sun”—truly
had he said, too, “That
without such thoughts man’s thinking
is incomplete.”</p>

<p class='c012'>We gained the house, and, entering
the library, it was pleasant to
see how instinctively all rose to
gather round the master. They had
missed Percival’s bright presence
the whole day.</p>

<p class='c012'>Some little time afterwards,
when, seated next to Lady Gertrude,
I was talking to her of the
Grays, I observed Tracey take aside
the Painter, and retire with him
into the adjoining colonnade. They
were not long absent. <a id='t279'></a>When they
returned, Bourke’s face, usually serious,
was joyous and elated. In
a few moments, with all his Irish
warmth of heart, he burst forth
with the announcement of the new
obligations he owed to Sir Percival
Tracey. “I have always said,” exclaimed
he, “that, give me an opening
and I will find or make my way.
I have the opening now; you shall
see!” We all poured our congratulations
upon the young enthusiast,
except Henry Thornhill, and his
brow was shaded and his lip quivered.
Clara, watching him, curbed
her own friendly words to the artist,
and, drawing to her husband’s side,
placed her hand tenderly on his
shoulder. “Pish! do leave me
alone,” muttered the ungracious
churl.</p>

<p class='c012'>“See,” whispered Percival to
me, “what a brute that fine young
fellow would become if we insisted
on making him happy our own
way, and saving him from the
chance of being shot!”</p>

<p class='c012'>Therewith rising, he gently led
away Clara, to whose soft eyes
tears had rushed; and looking back
to Henry, whose head was bended
over a volume of ‘The Wellington
Despatches,’ said in his ear, half-fondly,
half-reproachfully, “Poor
young fool! how bitterly you will
repent every word, every look of
unkindness to her, when—when
she is no more at your side to pardon
you!”</p>

<p class='c012'>That night it was long before I
slept. I pleased myself with what
is now grown to me a rare amusement—viz.,
the laying out plans
for the morrow. This holiday, with
Tracey all to myself; this summer
sail on the seas; this interval of
golden idlesse, refined by intercourse
with so serene an intelligence,
and on subjects so little
broached in the world of cities,
fascinated my imagination; and I
revolved a hundred questions it
would be delightful to raise, a hundred
problems it would be impossible
to solve. Though my life has
been a busy one, I believe that constitutionally
I am one of the most
indolent men alive. To lie on the
grass in summer noons under breathless
trees, to glide over smooth
waters, and watch the still shadows
on tranquil shores, is happiness to
me. I need then no books—then,
no companion. But if to that happiness
in the mere luxury of repose,
I may add another happiness
of a higher nature, it is in converse
with some one friend, upon subjects
remote from the practical work-day
world,—subjects akin less to our
active thoughts than to our dreamlike
reveries,—subjects conjectural,
speculative, fantastic, embracing
not positive opinions—for opinions
are things combative and disputatious—but
rather those queries
and guesses which start up from the
farthest border-land of our reason,
and lose themselves in air as we
attempt to chase and seize them.</p>

<p class='c012'>And perhaps this sort of talk,
which leads to no conclusions clear
enough for the uses of wisdom, is
the more alluring to me, because it
is very seldom to be indulged. I
carefully separate from the business
of life all which belong to the visionary
realm of speculative conjecture.
From the world of action I
hold it imperatively safe to banish
the ideas which exhibit the cloud-land
of metaphysical doubts and
mystical beliefs. In the actual world
let me see by the same broad sun
that gives light to all men; it is only
in the world of reverie that I amuse
myself with the sport of the dark
lantern, letting its ray shoot before
me into the gloom, and caring not
if, in its illusive light, the thorn-tree
in my path take the aspect of
a ghost. I shall notice the thorn-tree
all the better, distinguish more
clearly its shape, when I pass by it
the next day under the sun, for the
impression it made on my fancy
seen first by the gleam of the dark
lantern. Now, Tracey is one of the
very few highly-educated men it has
been my lot to know, with whom
one can safely mount in rudderless
balloons, drifting wind-tossed after
those ideas which are the phantoms
of Reverie, and wander, ghost-like,
out of castles in the air. And my
mind found a playfellow in his,
where, in other men’s minds, as
richly cultured, it found only companions
or competitors in task-work.</p>

<p class='c012'>Towards dawn, I fell asleep, and
dreamt that I was a child once
more, gathering bluebells and chasing
dragonflies amidst murmuring
water-reeds. The next day I came
down late; all had done breakfast.
The Painter was already gone; the
Librarian had retired into his den.
Henry Thornhill was walking by
himself to and fro, in front of the
window, with folded arms and downcast
brow. Percival was seated
apart, writing letters. Clara was
at work, stealing every now and
then a mournful glance towards
Henry. Lady Gertrude, punctiliously
keeping her place by the tea-urn,
filled my cup, and pointed to a
heap of letters formidably ranged
before my plate. I glanced anxiously
and rapidly over these unwelcomed
epistles. Thank heaven, nothing to
take me back to London! My political
correspondent informed me,
by a hasty line, that the dreaded
motion which stood first on the parliamentary
paper for that day would
in all probability be postponed,
agreeably to the request of the Government.
The mover of it had not,
however, given a positive answer;
no doubt he would do so in the
course of the night (last night); and
there was little doubt that, as a
professed supporter of the Government,
he would yield to the request
that had been made to him.</p>

<p class='c012'>So, after I had finished my abstemious
breakfast, I took Percival
aside and told him that I considered
myself free to prolong my stay, and
asked him, in a whisper, if he had
yet received the official letter he
expected, announcing young Thornhill’s
exchange and promotion.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Yes,” said he, “and I only waited
for you to announce its contents
to poor Henry; for I wish you to
tell me whether you think the news
will make him as happy as yesterday
he thought it would.”</p>

<p class='c012'>Tracey and I then went out, and
joined Henry in his walk. The
young man turned round on us an
impatient countenance.</p>

<p class='c012'>“So we have lost Bourke,” said
Tracey. “I hope he will return to
England with the reputation he goes
forth to seek.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Ay,” said Henry, “Bourke is a
lucky dog to have found, in one who
is not related to him, so warm and
so true a friend.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Every dog, lucky or unlucky,
has his day,” said Percival, gravely.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Every dog except a house-dog,”
returned Henry. “A house-dog is
thought only fit for a chain and a
kennel.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Ah, happy if his happiness he
knew!” replied Tracey. “But I
own that liberty compensates for
the loss of a warm litter and a good
dinner. Away from the kennel and
off with the chain! Read this letter,
and accept my congratulations—<em>Major</em>
Thornhill!”</p>

<p class='c012'>The young man started; the
colour rushed to his cheeks; he
glanced hastily over the letter held
out to him; dropped it; caught his
kinsman’s hand, and pressing it to
his heart, exclaimed, “Oh, sir,
thanks, thanks! So then, all the
while I was accusing you of obstructing
my career you were quietly
promoting it! How can you forgive
me my petulance, my ingratitude?”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Tut,” said Percival, kindly,
“the best-tempered man is sometimes
cross in his cups; and nothing,
perhaps, more irritates a
young brain than to get drunk on
the love of glory.”</p>

<p class='c012'>At the word glory the soldier’s
crest rose, his eye flashed fire, his
whole aspect changed, it became
lofty and noble. Suddenly his eye
caught sight of Clara, who had
stepped out of the window, and
stood gazing on him. His head
drooped, tears rushed to his eyes,
and with a quivering, broken voice,
he muttered, “Poor Clara—my wife,
my darling! Oh, Sir Percival, truly
you said how bitterly I should repent
every unkind word and look.
Ah, they will haunt me!”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Put aside regrets now. Go and
break the news to your wife: support,
comfort her; you alone can. I
have not dared to tell her.”</p>

<p class='c012'>Henry sighed and went, no longer
joyous, but with slow step and paling
cheek, to the place where Clara
stood. We saw him bend over the
hand she held out to him, kiss it
humbly, and then passing his arm
round her waist, he drew her away
into the farther recesses of the garden,
and both disappeared from our
eyes.</p>

<p class='c012'>“No,” said I, “he is not happy;
like us all, he finds that things
coveted have no longer the same
charm when they are things possessed.
Clara is avenged already.
But you have done wisely. Let
him succeed or let him fail, you
have removed from Clara her only
rival. If you had debarred him
from honour you would have estranged
him from love. Now you
have bound him to Clara for life.
She has ceased to be an obstacle
to his dreams, and henceforth she
herself will be the dream which his
waking life will sigh to regain.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Heaven grant he may come back,
with both his legs and both his
arms; and, perhaps, with a bit of
ribbon, or five shillings’ worth of
silver on his breast,” said Percival,
trying hard to be lively.
“Of all my kinsmen, I think I like
him the best. He is rough as the
east wind, but honest as the day.
Heigho! they will both leave us in
an hour or two. Clara’s voice is so
sweet; I wonder when she will sing
again! What a blank the place
will seem without those two young
faces! As soon as they are gone,
we two will be off. Aunt Gertrude
does not like Bellevue, and will pay
a visit for a few days to a cousin of
hers on the other side of the county.
I must send on before to let the
housekeeper at Bellevue prepare
for our coming. Meanwhile, pardon
me if I leave you—perhaps you
have letters to write; if so, despatch
them.”</p>

<p class='c012'>I was in no humour for writing
letters, but when Percival left me I
strolled from the house into the
garden, and, reclining there on a
bench opposite one of the fountains,
enjoyed the calm beauty of the
summer morning. Time slipped by.
Every now and then I caught sight
of Henry and Clara among the lilacs
in one of the distant walks, his arm
still round her waist, her head leaning
on his shoulder. At length
they went into the house, doubtless
to prepare for their departure.</p>

<p class='c012'>I thought of the wild folly with
which youth casts away the substance
of happiness to seize at the
shadow which breaks on the wave
that mirrors it; wiser and happier
surely the tranquil choice of Gray,
though with gifts and faculties far
beyond those of the young man
who mistook the desire of fame for
the power to win it. And then my
thoughts settling back on myself, I
became conscious of a certain melancholy.
How poor and niggard
compared with my early hopes had
been my ultimate results! How
questioned, grudged, and litigated,
my right of title to every inch of
ground that my thought had discovered
or my toils had cultivated!
What motive power in me had,
from boyhood to the verge of age,
urged me on “to scorn delight and
love laborious days?” Whatever the
motive power once had been, I could
no longer trace it. If vanity—of
which, doubtless, in youth I had
my human share—I had long since
grown rather too callous than too
sensitive to that love of approbation
in which vanity consists. I was
stung by no penury of fortune, influenced
by no feverish thirst for a
name that should outlive my grave,
fooled by no hope of the rewards
which goad on ambition. I had
reached the age when Hope weighs
her anchor and steers forth so far
that her amplest sail seems but a
silvery speck on the last line of the
horizon. Certainly I flattered myself
that my purposes linked my
toils to some slight service to mankind;
that in graver efforts I was
asserting opinions in the value of
which to human interests I sincerely
believed, and in lighter aims
venting thoughts and releasing fancies
which might add to the culture
of the world—not, indeed, fruitful
harvests, but at least some lowly
flowers. But though such intent
might be within my mind, could I
tell how far I unconsciously exaggerated
its earnestness—still less
could I tell how far the intent was
dignified by success? “Have I
done aught for which mankind
would be the worse were it swept
into nothingness to-morrow?”—is
a question which many a grand
and fertile genius may, in its true
humility, address mournfully to itself.
It is but a negative praise,
though it has been recorded as a
high one, to leave</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c013'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“No line which, dying, we would wish to blot.”</div>
    </div>
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</div>

<p class='c014'>If that be all, as well leave no line
at all. He has written in vain who
does not bequeath lines that, if
blotted, would be a loss to that
treasure-house of mind which is the
everlasting possession of the world.
Who, yet living, can even presume
to guess if he shall do this? Not
till at least a century after his
brain and his hand are dust can
even critics begin to form a rational
conjecture of an author’s or a statesman’s
uses to his kind. Was it,
then, as Gray had implied, merely
the force of habit which kept me
in movement? if so, was it a habit
worth all the sacrifice it cost? Thus
meditating, I forgot that if all men
reasoned thus and acted according
to such reasoning, the earth would
have no intermediate human dwellers
between the hewers and diggers,
and the idlers, born to consume the
fruits which they do not plant.
Farewell, then, to all the embellishments
and splendours by which civilised
man breathes his mind and
his soul into nature. For it is not
only the genius of rarest intellects
which adorns and aggrandises social
states, but the aspirations and the
efforts of thousands and millions,
all towards the advance and uplifting
and beautifying of the integral,
universal state, by the energies
native to each. Where would
be the world fit for Traceys and
Grays to dwell in, if all men philosophised
like the Traceys and the
Grays? Where all the gracious
arts, all the generous rivalries of
mind, that deck and animate the
bright calm of peace? Where all
the devotion, heroism, self-sacrifice
in a common cause, that exalt
humanity even amidst the rage and
deformities of war, if, throughout
well-ordered, close-welded states,
there ran not electrically, from
breast to breast, that love of honour
which is a part of man’s sense
of beauty, or that instinct towards
utility which, even more than the
genius too exceptional to be classed
amongst the normal regulations of
social law, creates the marvels of
mortal progress? Not, however, I
say, did I then address to myself
these healthful and manly questions.
I felt only that I repined,
and looked with mournful and
wearied eyes along an agitated,
painful, laborious past. Rousing
myself with an effort from these embittered
contemplations, the charm
of the external nature insensibly
refreshed and gladdened me. I
inhaled the balm of an air sweet
with flowers, felt the joy of the
summer sun, from which all life
around seemed drawing visible happiness,
and said to myself gaily,
“At least to-day is mine—this
blissful sunlit day—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c013'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in10'>‘<span lang="la">Nimium breves</span></div>
      <div class='line'><span lang="la">Flores amænæ ferre jube rosæ,</span></div>
      <div class='line in2'><span lang="la">Dum res et ætas et sororum,</span></div>
      <div class='line in4'><span lang="la">Fila trium patiuntur atra!</span>’”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>So murmuring, I rose as from a
dream, and saw before me a strange
figure—a figure, uncouth, sinister,
ominous as the evil genius that
startled Brutus on the eve of Philippi.
I knew by an unmistakable
instinct that that figure <em>was</em> an evil
genius.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Do you want me? Who and
what are you?” I asked, falteringly.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Please your honour, I come express
from the N—— Station. A
telegram.”</p>

<p class='c012'>I opened the scrap of paper extended
to me, and read these
words,—</p>

<p class='c012'>“O—— positively brings on his
motion. Announced it last night
too late for post. Division certain—probably
before dinner. Every
vote wanted. Come directly.”</p>

<p class='c012'>Said the Express with a cruel
glee, as I dropped the paper, “Sir,
the station-master also received a
telegram to send over a fly. I have
brought one; only just in time to
catch the half-past twelve o’clock;
no other train till six. You had
best be quick, sir.”</p>

<p class='c012'>No help for it. I hurried back
to the house, bade my servant follow
by the next train with my portmanteau—no
moments left to wait
for packing; found Tracey in his
quiet study—put the telegram into
his hands. “You see my excuse—adieu.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Does this motion, then, interest
you so much? Do you mean to
speak on it?”</p>

<p class='c012'>“No, but it must not be carried.
Every vote against it is of consequence.
Besides, I have promised
to vote, and cannot stay away with
honour.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Honour! That settles it. I
must go to Bellevue alone; or shall
I take Caleb and make him teach
me Hebrew? But surely you will
join me to-morrow, or the next
day?”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Yes, if I can. But heavens!”
(glancing at the clock)—“not half
an hour to reach the station—six
miles off. Kindest regards to Lady
Gertrude—poor Clara—Henry—and
all. Heaven bless you!”</p>

<p class='c012'>I am in the fly—I am off. I
gain the station just in time for the
train—arrive at the House of Commons
in more than time as to a
vote, for the debate not only lasted
all that night, but was adjourned
till the next week, and lasted the
greater part of that, when it was
withdrawn, and—no vote at all!</p>

<p class='c012'>But I could not then return to
Tracey. Every man accustomed to
business in London knows how,
once there, hour after hour, arises
a something that will not allow him
to depart. When at length freed,
I knew Tracey would no longer
need my companionship—his Swedish
philosopher was then with him.
They were deep in scientific mysteries,
on which, as I could throw
no light, I should be but a profane
intruder. Besides, I was then summoned
to my own country place,
and had there to receive my own
guests, long pre-engaged. So passed
the rest of the summer; in the
autumn I went abroad, and have
never visited the Castle of Indolence
since those golden days. In
truth I resisted a frequent and a
haunting desire to do so. I felt
that a second and a longer sojourn
in that serene but relaxing atmosphere
might unnerve me for the
work which I had imposed on myself,
and sought to persuade my
tempted conscience was an inexorable
duty. Experience had taught
me that in the sight of that intellectual
repose, so calm and so
dreamily happy, my mind became
unsettled, and nourished seeds that
might ripen to discontent of the lot
I had chosen for myself. So then,
<i><span lang="la">sicut meus est mos</span></i>, I seize a consolation
for the loss of enjoyments that
I may not act anew by living them
over again, in fancy and remembrance:
I give to my record the
title of “Motive Power,” though it
contains much episodical to that
thesis, and though it rather sports
around the subject so indicated
than subjects it to strict analysis.
But I here take for myself
the excuse I have elsewhere made
for Montaigne, in his loose observance
of the connection between
the matter and the titles of his
essays.</p>

<p class='c012'>I must leave it to the reader to
blame or acquit me for having admitted
so many lengthy descriptions,
so many digressive turns and
shifts of thought and sentiment,
through which, as through a labyrinth,
he winds his way, with steps
often checked and often retrogressive,
still, sooner or later, creeping
on to the heart of the maze. There
I leave him to find the way out.
Labyrinths have no interest if we
give the clue to them.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_284'>284</span>
  <h2 class='c002'>MRS CLIFFORD’S MARRIAGE.</h2>
</div>
<h3 class='c010'>PART I.</h3>
<h4 class='c010'>CHAPTER I.—THE LADIES’ OPINION.</h4>

<p class='c011'>“You don’t mean to say she’s
going to be married—not Mary? I
don’t believe a word of it. She
was too fond of her poor husband
who put such trust in her. No,
no, child—don’t tell such nonsense
to me.”</p>

<p class='c012'>So said old Miss Harwood when
the dreadful intelligence was first
communicated to her. The two
old sisters, who were both charitable
old souls, and liked to think
the best of everybody, were equally
distressed about this piece of village
scandal. “I don’t say anything
about her poor husband—he
was a fool to trust so much to a
woman of her age,” said Miss
Amelia; “but in my opinion Mary
Clifford has sense to know when
she’s well off.” The very idea
made the sisters angry: a woman
with five thousand a-year, with five
fine children, with the handsomest
house and most perfect little establishment
within twenty miles of
Summerhayes; a widow, with nobody
to cross or contradict her,
with her own way and will to her
heart’s content—young enough to
be still admired and paid attention
to, and old enough to indulge in
those female pleasures without
any harm coming of it; to think
of a woman in such exceptionally
blessed circumstances stooping her
head under the yoke, and yielding
a second time to the subjection of
marriage, was more than either of
the Miss Harwoods could believe.</p>

<p class='c012'>“But I believe it’s quite true—indeed,
I <em>know</em> it’s quite true,”
said the curate’s little wife. “Mr
Spencer heard it first from the Miss
Summerhayes, who did not know
what to think—their own brother,
you know; and yet they couldn’t
forget that poor dear Mr Clifford
was their cousin; and then they
are neither of them married themselves,
poor dears, which makes
them harder upon her.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“We have never been married,”
said Miss Amelia; “I don’t see
what difference that makes. It is
amusing to see the airs you little
creatures give yourselves on the
strength of being married. I suppose
<em>you</em> think it’s all right—it’s a
compliment to her first husband,
eh? and shows she was happy with
him?—that’s what the men say
when they take a second wife;
that’s how you would do I suppose,
if——”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Oh, Miss Amelia, don’t be so
cruel,” cried the little wife. “I
should die. Do you think I could
ever endure to live without Julius?
I don’t understand what people’s
hearts are made of that can do such
things: but then,” added the little
woman, wiping her bright eyes,
“Mr Clifford was not like my husband.
He was very good, I daresay,
and all that—but he wasn’t
——. Well, I don’t think he was
a taking man. He used to sit such
a long time after dinner. He used
to——it’s very wicked to be unkind
to the dead—but he wasn’t
the sort of man a woman could
break her heart for, you know.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“I should like to know who is,”
said Miss Amelia. “He left her
everything, without making provision
for one of the children. He
gave her the entire power, like a
fool, at her age. He did not deserve
anything better; but it appears
to me that Mary Clifford has
the sense to know when she’s well
off.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Well, well!” said old Miss Harwood,
“I couldn’t have believed
it, but now as you go on discussing,
I daresay it’ll turn out true.
When a thing comes so far as to be
discussed, it’s going to happen.
I’ve always found it so. Well,
well! love has gone out of fashion
nowadays. When I was a girl
things were different. We did not
talk about it half so much, nor
read novels. But we had the right
feelings. I daresay she will just be
as affectionate to Tom Summerhayes
as she was to her poor dear
husband. Oh, my dear, it’s very
sad—I think it’s very sad—five fine
children, and she can’t be content
with that. It’ll turn out badly,
dear, and that you’ll see.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“He’ll swindle her out of all her
money,” said Miss Amelia.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Oh, don’t say such dreadful
things,” cried the curate’s little wife,
getting up hastily. “I am sure I
hope they’ll be happy—that is, as
happy as they <em>can</em> be,” she added,
with a touch of candid disapproval.
“I must run away to baby now;
the poor dear children!—I must say
I am sorry for them—to have another
man brought in in their poor
papa’s place; but oh, I must run
away, else I shall be saying cruel
things too.”</p>

<p class='c012'>The two Miss Harwoods discussed
this interesting subject largely
after Mrs Spencer had gone.
The Summerhayes people had been,
on the whole, wonderfully merciful
to Mrs Clifford during her five years’
solitary reign at Fontanel. She
had been an affectionate wife—she
was a good mother—she had worn
the weeds of her widowhood seriously,
and had not plunged into
any indiscreet gaieties when she
took them off; while, at the same
time, she had emerged sufficiently
from her seclusion to restore Fontanel
to its old position as one
of the pleasantest houses in the
county. What could woman do
more? Tom Summerhayes was her
husband’s cousin; he had been
brought up to the law, and naturally
understood affairs in general better
than she did. Everybody knew
that he was an idle fellow. After
old Mr Summerhayes died, everybody
quite expected that Tom
would settle down in the old manor,
and live an agreeable useless life,
instead of toiling himself to death
in hopes of one day being Lord
Chancellor—a very unlikely chance
at the best; and events came about
exactly as everybody had predicted.
At the same time, the entire neighbourhood
allowed that Tom had
exerted himself quite beyond all
precedent on behalf of his cousin’s
widow. Poor Mary Clifford had a
great deal too much on her hands,
he was always saying. It was a
selfish sort of kindness to crush
down a poor little woman under all
that weight of wealth and responsibility;
and so, at last, here was
what had come of it. The Miss
Harwoods sat and talked it all over
that cold day in the drawing-room
of Woodbine Cottage, which had
one window looking to the village-green,
and another, a large, round,
bright bow-window, opening to the
garden. The fire was more agreeable
than the garden that day.
Miss Harwood sat knitting in her
easy-chair, while Miss Amelia occupied
herself in ticketing all that
miscellaneous basket of articles destined
for the bazaar of ladies’ work
to be held in Summerhayes in
February; but work advanced
slowly under the influence of such
an inducement to talk. The old
ladies, as may be supposed, came
to a sudden pause and looked confused
and guilty when the door
opened and the Miss Summerhayes
were announced. Perhaps the new
visitors might even have heard
something of the conversation which
was going on with so much animation.
Certainly it came to a most
abrupt conclusion, and the Miss
Harwoods looked consciously into
each other’s faces when the ladies of
the manor-house came to the door.</p>

<p class='c012'>These ladies were no longer young,
but they were far from having
reached the venerable certainty of
old-maidenhood which possessed
the atmosphere of Woodbine Cottage.
They were still in the fidgety
unsettled stage of unweddedness—women
who had fallen out of their
occupation, and were subject to little
tempers and vapours, not from
real ill-humour or sourness, but simply
by reason of the vacancy and
unsatisfaction of their lives. The
Miss Summerhayes often enough
did not know what to do with themselves;
and being unphilosophical,
as women naturally are, they set
down this restless condition of
mind, not to the account of human
nature generally, and of female
impatience in particular, but to
their own single and unwedded
condition—a matter which still
seemed capable of remedy; so that
the fact must be admitted, that Miss
Laura and Miss Lydia were sometimes
a little flighty and uncertain
in their temper; sometimes a little
harsh in their judgments; and, in
short, in most matters, betrayed a
certain unsettledness and impatience
in their minds, as people generally
do, in every condition of existence,
when they are discontented
with their lot. The chances are that
nothing would have pleased them
better than to have plunged into an
immediate discussion of all the circumstances
of this strange piece of
news with which Summerhayes was
ringing; but the position was complicated
by the fact that they were
accompanied by little Louisa Clifford,
who was old enough to understand
all that was said, and quick
enough to guess at any allusion
which might be made to her mother,
however skilfully veiled; so that,
on the whole, the situation was as
difficult a one for the four ladies,
burning to speak but yet incapable
of utterance, as can well be conceived.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Oh, how far on <em>you</em> are,” cried
Miss Laura; “I have not got in half
the work that has been promised to
me; but you always are first with
everything—first in gardening, first
in working, first in——”</p>

<p class='c012'>“All the news, I am sure,” said
Miss Lydia; “we, of course, never
hear anything till it has happened.
Provoking! Loo, shouldn’t you like
to go to Miss Harwood’s maid, and
ask her to show you the chickens?
She has a perfect genius for poultry,
though she is such a little thing;
and Miss Amelia has such loves of
dorkings. We shan’t be leaving
for half an hour; now go, there’s a
dear!”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Thank you, cousin Lydia, I’d
rather look at the things for the
bazaar,” returned Loo, lifting a pair
of acute suspicious eyes; a pale-faced
little creature, sharp-witted
and vigilant, instinctively conscious
why her amusement was thus carefully
provided for—Loo did not
choose to go.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Such a nuisance!” said Miss
Laura; “I say we are just far enough
off at the manor to be out of reach
of everything except the bores and
the troubles. You always think of
us when you have stupid visitors,
but you keep all that’s exciting to
yourselves. Loo, darling! the Miss
Harwoods’ violets are always out
earlier than any one else’s. I have
such a passion for violets! Do run
out, dear, and see if you can find one
for me yonder under the hedge.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“I will ask mamma to send you
some to-morrow, cousin Laura,” said
the determined little Loo.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Did you ever hear anything
like it?” said Miss Lydia, in a half
whisper. “Loo!”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Loo will carry this basket up-stairs
for me to my room,” said Miss
Harwood, “and ask Harriet to show
you the things in my cupboard,
dear. All the prettiest things are
there, and such a very grand cushion
that I mean to make your mamma
buy. Tell Harriet to show you everything;
there’s a darling! That is
a very bright little girl, my dears,”
said the old lady, when Loo withdrew,
reluctant but dutiful. “I
hope nothing will ever be done to
crush her spirit. I suppose you must
have both come to tell us it’s not
true.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Oh, you mean about my brother
and Mary Clifford,” cried out both
sisters in a breath. “Oh, Miss Harwood,
did you ever hear of such a
thing! Did you ever know anything
so dreadful! Tom, that might have
married anybody!” cried Miss Lydia;
“and Mary Clifford, that was so
inconsolable, and pretended to have
broken her heart!” cried the younger
sister. They were both in a flutter
of eagerness, neither permitting the
other to speak.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Oh dear, dear, it does come so
hard upon us,” said Miss Laura,
“we that have always had such a
prejudice against second marriages;
and a cousin’s widow—it’s almost
like a brother; and if poor Harry
could rise from his grave, what
would he say!” concluded Miss Lydia,
who took up the strain without
any intervals of punctuation. “I
begin to think it’s all true the gentlemen
say about women’s inconstancy;
that is, your common style
of women,” ran on the elder without
any pause; “and poor dear Tom,
who might have married any one,”
cried the younger, out of breath.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Then I perceive,” said Miss
Amelia Harwood, “it’s true? Well,
I don’t see much harm, for my part,
if they have everything properly
settled first. Poor Harry was all
very well, I daresay, but he was a
great fool not to provide for his
children. Your brother said so at
the time; but I did think, for my
part, that Mary Clifford had the
sense to know when she was well
off.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Oh, she shows that,” cried Lydia
Summerhayes, with a little toss
of her head; “widows are so designing;
they know the ways of men,
and how to manage them, very differently
from any of us—if <em>we</em> could
stoop to such a thing, which of
course, we wouldn’t. Oh yes, Mary
Clifford knows <em>very</em> well what she’s
about. I am sure I have told Tom
he was her honorary secretary for
many a day. I thought she was just
making use of him to serve her own
purpose; I never thought how far
her wiles went. If it had been her
lawyer, or the curate, or any humble
person; but Tom! He might
have done so much better,” said
Laura, chiming in at some imperceptible
point, so that it was impossible
to tell where one voice
ended and the other began.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Well, I must say I am disappointed
in Mary Clifford,” said Miss
Harwood, “she was always such an
affectionate creature. That’s why
it is, I daresay. These affectionate
people can’t do without an object;
but her five children——”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Ah! yes, her five children,” exclaimed
the Miss Summerhayes;
“only imagine dear Tom making
such a marriage! Why, Charley
Clifford has been at Eton ever so
long; he is fifteen. And dear Tom
is quite a young man, and might
have married anybody,” said the
last of the two, taking up the chorus:
“it is too dreadful to think
of it—such a cutting blow to us.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“I can’t see how it is so very
bad for you,” said Miss Amelia
Harwood; “of course they will live
at Fontanel, and you will still keep
the manor-house. I think it’s
rather a good thing for you for my
part. Hush! there’s the child again—clever
little thing—she knows
quite well what we’ve been talking
of. My dear, I hope Harriet showed
you all the things—and isn’t
that a pretty cushion? Tell your
mamma I mean to make her buy
it, as she is the richest lady I
know.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Are you going, my dears?” said
the elder old lady. “I am sorry
you have so little time to stay—I
hope you will find things arrange
themselves comfortably, and that
everybody will be happy. Don’t
get excited—it’s astonishing how
everything settles down. You want
to speak to me, Loo,” said Miss
Harwood, starting a little when she
had just reseated herself in her
easy-chair after dismissing her
visitors. “Certainly, dear; I suppose
you have set your little heart
on one of the pretty pincushions
up-stairs.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“No, indeed, nothing of the sort—I
hope I know better than to care
for such trumpery,” said Loo, with
an angry glow on her little pale face.
“I stopped behind to say, that whatever
mamma pleases to do, we mean
to stand by her,” cried poor Mary
Clifford’s only champion. “I’m
not sure whether I shall like it or
not for myself—but we have made
up our minds to stand by mamma,
and so we will, as long as we live;
and she shall do what she likes!”
cried the little heroine. Two big
tears were in those brown eyes,
which looked twice as bright and
as big through those great dew-drops
which Loo would not for the
world have allowed to fall. She
opened her eyelids wider and wider
to re-absorb the untimely tears, and
looked full, with childish defiance,
in Miss Harwood’s face.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Loo, you are a dear!” said
prompt Miss Amelia, kissing the
child; “you shall have the prettiest
pincushion in all my basket.” The
little girl vanished suddenly after
this speech, half in indignation at
the promise, half because the tears
would not be disposed of otherwise,
and it was necessary to rush outside
to conceal their dropping. “Ah!
Amelia,” said kind old Miss Harwood,
“I’m sorry for poor Mary
in my heart—but I’d rather have
that child’s love than Tom Summerhayes.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“<em>Poor</em> Mary! for my part, I have
no patience with her,” said the
practical Miss Amelia; “a woman
come to her time of life ought to
have the sense to know when she’s
well off.”</p>

<p class='c012'>Such was the character of the
comments made upon Mrs Clifford’s
marriage when it was first talked of,
in Woodbine Cottage, and generally
among all the female portion of
society as it existed in Summerhayes.</p>

<h4 class='c010'>CHAPTER II.—WHAT THE GENTLEMEN SAID.</h4>

<p class='c011'>The Rector of Summerhayes was
the Miss Harwoods’ brother, much
younger however, unmarried, and
rather a fine man in his way. He
had a little dinner, as it happened,
the same evening. His table only
held six, Mr Harwood said. The
rectory was an old-fashioned house,
and the dining-room would have
quite admitted a table which could
dine twenty—but such were not the
Rector’s inclinations. There are
enough men in the neighbourhood
of Summerhayes to make it very
possible to vary your parties pleasantly
when you have a table that
only holds six, whereas with a large
number you can only have the
same people over and over again;
and Mr Harwood did not like to be
bored. He had a friend with him
from town, as he always had on
such occasions. He had his curate,
and young Chesterfield from Dalton,
and Major Aldborough, and Dr
Gossett; rather a village party—as
he explained to Mr Temple, the
stranger—but not bad company.
The dinner was a very good one,
like all the Rector’s little dinners,
and was consumed with that judicious
reticence in the way of talk,
and wise suspension of wit, which
is only practicable in a party composed
of men. By means of this
sensible quietness, the dinner was
done full justice to, and the company
expanded into full force over
their wine. Then the conversation
became animated. The Rector,
it is true, indulged in ten minutes’
parish talk with the Doctor,
while Mr Temple and Major Aldborough
opened the first parallel
of a political duel, and young Chesterfield
discoursed on the last Meet
to poor Mr Spencer, who, reduced
into curate-hood and economy, still
felt his mouth water over such forbidden
pleasures. Then Mr Harwood
himself introduced the subject
which at that time reigned paramount
over all other subjects at
Summerhayes.</p>

<p class='c012'>“So Tom Summerhayes is going
to marry little Mrs Clifford,” said
the Rector; “hadn’t you heard of
it? Yes, these grapes are from
Fontanel. She has a capital gardener,
and her conservatories are
the finest in the county. A very
pleasant little house altogether,
though there are some particulars
about her table which one feels to
be feeble. Her dinners are always
a little defective since poor Clifford’s
death—too mild, you know—too
sweet—want the severer taste
of a man.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Mrs Clifford—a pretty little
woman with brown eyes?” said Mr
Temple. “I’ve met her somewhere.
So she gives dinners, does
she? When I saw her she was in
the recluse line. I suppose that
didn’t last.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“It lasted quite long enough,”
said Dr Gossett; “nothing could
be more proper, or more ladylike, or
more satisfactory in every way. If
I had a wife and were unluckily to
die, I should wish her just to wear
her weeds and so forth like Mrs
Clifford—a charming woman; what
should we do without her in the
parish? but as for Tom Summerhayes——”</p>

<p class='c012'>“He’s an ass,” growled the Major.
“What’s he got to do burdening
himself with other people’s children.
Why, there’s five of ’em, sir!
They’ll hate him like poison—they’ll
think he’s in no end of conspiracies
to shut them out of their
fortune. By Jove! if he knew as
much about other people’s children
as I do. I’ve had two families
consigned to me from India—as if
I were a reformatory, or a schoolmaster,
by Jove! <em>She’s</em> all very
well, as women go; but I wouldn’t
marry that family—no, not for
<em>twenty</em>-five thousand a-year.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“I confess I think it’s a pity,”
said Mr Spencer, playing with the
Fontanel grapes. The Curate perhaps
was thinking in his heart that
such delicate little souvenirs might
have gone quite as appropriately to
his own little <em>ménage</em> as to the Rector’s,
who lacked for nothing. “It’s
like going into life at second hand,
you know. I shouldn’t like it, for
my part. The children are a drawback,
to be sure; but that’s not the
greatest, to my mind; they are nice
enough children.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Delightful children!” cried
the Doctor, “little bricks! plucky
little things! I don’t care for babies,
though they’re partly my business.
A family ready made would just
suit me.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Well, it ain’t much in my line to
say what a fellow ought or oughtn’t
to do,” said young Chesterfield.
“I’m not a marrying man myself.
I don’t pretend to understand that
sort of thing, you know. But Summerhayes
ain’t a spoon, as everybody
will allow. He knows what
he’s doing. Last time I was at
Fontanel, I couldn’t make out for
the life of me what Mrs Clifford
wanted with that new set of stables.
She said they were preparing against
Charley’s growing up. I thought
somehow Summerhayes must have
a hand in it, and it’s plain enough
now.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Well, he has done a great deal
for her,” said the Rector; “he’s
been a sort of unpaid steward at
Fontanel. I daresay she didn’t
know how to reward him otherwise.
I believe that’s the handiest way of
making it up to a man in a lady’s
fancy. It’s a dangerous kind of
business to go on long; but I don’t
know that there’s anything to find
fault with. She’s pretty and he’s
not young;—well, not exactly a
young fellow, I mean,” said the
Rector, with a half apology. “I
daresay they’ll do very well together.
If poor Clifford had only
made a sensible will—but for that
nobody would have had any right
to talk.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“And what was poor Clifford’s
will?” asked the stranger, with a
polite yawn; “men don’t generally
study their wife’s convenience in
a second marriage, in that document;
has the defunct been harder
upon this lively lady than most
husbands, or what’s wrong about
his will?”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Deuced fool, sir,” cried the Major;
“left her every farthing he had in
the world, without settling a penny
on those deuced children, or binding
her up anyhow; left her at thirty
or so, I suppose, with every penny
he had in her hands. Never heard
of such an ass. Of course that’s
what Summerhayes means, but I
can tell him it won’t be a bed of
roses. They’ll hate him like poison,
these brats will—they’ll make
parties against him—they’ll serve
him so that he’ll be sick of his
life. I know the whole business.
He’s well enough off now, with his
old father’s savings, and the manor-house,
and nothing to do; but
he’ll be a wretched man, mark my
words, if he marries Fontanel with
five children in it. It’s the maddest
thing he ever did in his
life.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“The poor lady doesn’t seem to
count for much,” said Mr Temple.
“She’s a pretty nobody, I suppose.”</p>

<p class='c012'>Upon which vehement disclaimers
rose from all the <em>convives</em>. “No,
she was a charming woman,” Gossett
said. “A dear, kind-hearted, good
little soul,” said the Rector. “Very
well as women go,” the Major admitted;
while the two young men
added warmer, but equally vague
commendations. “Yet none of you
imagine she is being married for
herself,” said the solitary individual
who did not belong to Summerhayes,
with a little laugh at the
perturbation he had caused. But
nobody saw the fun of it: they
went on with the discussion, ignoring
Mr Temple.</p>

<p class='c012'>“When a woman is in Mrs Clifford’s
position,” said the Doctor,
“it is nonsense to talk of her <em>being</em>
married. She is active, she is no
longer passive in such a business.
She’s richer, she’s <em>gooder</em>, she’s
handsomer, she’s better off every
way than Tom Summerhayes. How
she ever came to fancy him is
the wonder to me.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Deuced nonsense,” said the
Major; “why didn’t he marry off his
sisters and set up snug for himself?
He’s old enough to know better, that
fellow is. There’s young Chesterfield
there, he’s at the time of life to
make a fool of himself; but Summerhayes
must be, let me see——”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Don’t let us go into chronology,”
said the Rector. “Poor
little Mary, I hope she’ll be happy
all the same. I married her to poor
Clifford, and I daresay I’ll have
this little business to do as well.
I wish she had a brother, or an
uncle, or some one to take that
piece of duty off my hands. I think
I will have one of my attacks, and
go off to Malvern, and leave it,
Spencer, to you.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“I wish she had an uncle or a
brother for more than that,” said
the Doctor; “it ought to be seen
to—the settlement and all that
should be looked well into. I hope
she’ll have her wits about her.
Not that I mean to ascribe any
mean motives to Tom Summerhayes;
but still when there’s five
children to be considered——”</p>

<p class='c012'>“They’ll kill him, sir,” said the
Major, with energy. “He’ll not
enjoy her money for long, mark my
words; they’ll kill him in a year.
I have only got this to say, sir,” continued
the warrior, turning round
upon Mr Temple, who had ventured
a remark not bearing on the
present subject to the Curate, “if
this income-tax is going to be kept
up without any compensation, I’ll
emigrate—it’s the only thing that
remains for honest Englishmen.
After a life spent in the service of
my country, I’ll be driven to a
colony, sir, in my old age. It’s more
than the country can bear, and
what’s better, it’s more than the
country <em>will</em> bear. We’ll have a
revolution, by Jove! that’s what
will come of all this taxing and
paying; it’s not to be borne, sir, in
a land that calls itself free.”</p>

<p class='c012'>Whereupon politics came into
possession of the elders of the party,
and young Chesterfield resumed
that tantalising account of the
Meet which made the poor Curate
sigh.</p>

<p class='c012'>Poor Mrs Clifford! she had but
scant sympathy in those innumerable
discussions, male and female,
of which she was at present the
subject, all in and about Summerhayes.</p>

<h4 class='c010'>CHAPTER III.—WHAT THE CHILDREN HAD TO SAY.</h4>

<p class='c011'>Meanwhile little Loo, with another
pair of big tears in her brown
eyes, had been driven home in the
wintry twilight over the frosty road,
which rang to every stamp of her
ponies’ heels in a way which would
have excited the little thing into
positive enjoyment of the exhilarating
sounds and sensations of rapid
motion, had things been as usual.
As it was, she sat wrapped up in a
fur cloak, with her little veil over
her face, watching the great trees
glide past in the darkening, and
turning her wistful looks now and
then to the young winterly moon,
which had strayed like a lost child
into the midst of a whole covey of
clouds, still crimsoned with reflections
from the sunset. Loo’s little
heart ached so, and she was so steadfastly
determined not to admit that
it was aching, that she was almost
glad to feel how chill her little feet
were getting, and how benumbed
the hand which was outside of the
fur cloak. She kept her little stiff
fingers exposed to the frosty breeze
all the same, and was rather glad of
that sensation of misery which gave
her a little excuse to herself for
feeling unhappy. As the tinges of
crimson stole out of the clouds, and
the sky grew so wistfully, coldly
clear around the moon, Fontanel
came in sight, with lights in all its
windows, twinkling through the
trees in the long avenue, now one
gleam, now another, as the little carriage
drove on. There first of all was
the great nursery window blazing
with firelight, where Loo meant to
hold a little committee as soon as
she got in, and where she could so
well picture “all of them” in all
their different occupations, populating
all the corners of the familiar
room. A little further on it was
the window of mamma’s room,
which lightened brightly out behind
the bare branches of the great chestnut
tree. What would the house be
without mamma? the little girl asked
herself, and the great blobs of hot
dew in her eyes fell upon her cold
fingers. “Aren’t you well, Miss
Loo?” asked the old groom who
drove her, and Loo made him a very
sharp answer in the irritation of
her troubled little heart. She ran
into the light and comfort of the
house with a perverse, childish
misery which she did not understand.
She would not let old
William take her cloak from her,
but threw it down, and stumbled
over it, and stamped her little foot,
and could have cried. Poor little
Loo! she was sick at heart, and did
not know what it meant. Instead
of going to her mother, as she usually
did, she hastened up to the
nursery where “all of them” were
in a highly riotous condition at the
moment, and where the darkness of
her little face was unnoted by all
but nurse, who took off her boots
and warmed her feet, and did away
with the only physical reason Loo
dared to pretend to as an excuse
for looking wretched. It was not
very easy to look wretched in that
room. By the side of the fire where
a great log blazed was Harry, aged
ten, with a great book clasped in
his arms, and his cheeks and hair
equally scorched and crimsoned
with near vicinity to the flame.
Little Mary, and Alf, the baby,
were playing at the other end of
the room. Alf was six, though he
was the baby; but Mrs Clifford was
the kind of woman to love a pet,
and the little fellow’s indignant
manhood was still smothered in
long curls and lace tuckers. He
avenged himself by exercising the
most odious tyranny over his next
little sister, who was Baby’s slave.
All this little company Loo looked
round upon with mysterious looks.
She herself was twelve, little and
pale, with nothing particular about
her but her eyes, and her temper,
which had already made itself, unfortunately,
felt through the house.
She sat maturing her plans till she
heard the clock strike, and saw that
it would shortly be time to go to
her mother in her dressing-room, as
the Fontanel children always did
before dinner. She immediately
bestirred herself to her task.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Nurse,” said Loo, “will you
take these things down to mamma’s
dressing-room, please, and tell her
we will all come presently; and if you
wish to go down-stairs, you may. I
will take care of the children, and
take them down to mamma.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Thank you, Miss Loo; but
there’s nobody to be at dinner but
Mr Summerhayes and Mademoiselle,
and you’re all to go down,”
said Nurse; “you’re too little to
have the charge of Master Alf, and
you’ve all got to be dressed, dears,
for dessert.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Then you can come up when I
ring. I want the children by themselves,”
said little Loo, with her
imperious air. “You can go away.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“You’re a deal too forward for
such a little thing. I’ll speak to
your ma, Miss, I will,” said the offended
nurse. “At least I would if
it was any good; but as long as
Missis encourages her like this;—oh
children dear, there’s changed times
coming! You won’t have the upper
hand always; it’s a comfort to a
poor servant anyhow, whatever it
may be to other folks. I’m going,
Miss Loo; and you’ll come up directly
the very minute you leave
your ma to be dressed.”</p>

<p class='c012'>Loo watched her to the door, and,
skipping off her chair, closed it behind
the dethroned guardian of the
nursery. “Now, children, come
here, I want to speak to you all,”
said the little princess. “Mary,
don’t be as great a baby as Alf;
you are eight—you are almost a
woman. Alf, come here and
stand by me like a gentleman.
Harry——”</p>

<p class='c012'>But Harry was not so easily
roused. He had been lectured so
long about scorching his face that he
was now proof to all appeals. He
had to be hunted up out of his
corner, and the book skilfully tilted
up and thrown out of his arms,
which operation surprised Loo into
a momentary laugh, of which she
was much ashamed. “Harry!”
she cried, with redoubled severity,
“it is no nonsense I am going to
talk of—it is something very serious.
Oh, children!” exclaimed the
elder sister, as Alf jumped upon
Harry’s back, and the two had a
harmless scuffle in continuation of
that assault which had roused
Harry. “Oh, children!” cried Loo,
who had laughed in spite of herself,
now bursting into quick tears of
impatience and vexation. “You
play and play and think of nothing
else—and you won’t let me talk to
you of what’s going to happen to
mamma.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“What is it?” cried Harry, opening
a pair of great bright eyes, and
coming hastily to his sister’s side.
Alf asked “What is it?” too, and
placed himself on the other hand.
As for Mary, she was frightened
and stood a little apart, ready to
rush off to her mother, or to ring
for Nurse, or to do anything else
that the exigency might demand.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Do you remember what mamma
said to us when we were in the
dining-room on Sunday after dinner,
when Tom—I mean when Mr Summerhayes
was there—when he
kissed us all?” said Loo, with a
little red spot suddenly glowing out
upon one indignant little cheek.</p>

<p class='c012'>“She said he was going to be a
father to us,” said Harry, rather
stolidly.</p>

<p class='c012'>“And we didn’t know what it
meant,” said little Mary, breaking
in eagerly, “but Nurse told me
afterwards. It means that mamma
is going to be married to cousin
Tom. Oh, won’t it be queer?
Shall we have to call him papa, Loo?
I shall never recollect, I am sure.”</p>

<p class='c012'>Loo gazed with eyes growing
larger and larger in the face of her
insensible sister. Then seeing
Mary’s arm on the top of the great
nursery fender, Loo, we are sorry
to say, was so far betrayed by her
resentment as to thrust little Mary
violently away with a sob of passion.
They all looked at her with wondering
eyes.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Oh, you stupid, stupid children!”
cried the poor little heroine,
“don’t you know mamma, though
she is so pretty, is not a young lady
like other people that are going to
be married; don’t you know people
talk about it, and laugh at her, and
say she is foolish? I have heard
them do it!” cried Loo. “I heard
them in Summerhayes to-day talking
and scolding about our mamma.
She knows best what to do—better
than all of them. She will never
be unkind to us, or stop loving us.
Oh, only think if she knew that
people said such things—it would
kill her! I heard them, and I
thought I should have died. And
now, children,” said Loo, solemnly,
“what we’ve got to do is to go
down to mamma, not jumping or
making a noise like great babies,
but quiet and serious; and to tell
her that she is to do what she thinks
best, and never mind what people
say; and that we—we,” sobbed the
little girl, vainly trying to preserve
her composure, as she brought out
word after word with a gush of
tears—“we’ll stand by her and
trust in her, and never believe anything.
That is what we must go
and say.”</p>

<p class='c012'>After she had finished her speech
Loo fell into a little passion of crying,
in which she partly lost the
slight murmurs and remonstrances
of her calmer and wondering audience;
but passion as usual carried
the day. When Mrs Clifford’s bell
rang the children went down-stairs,
looking rather scared, in a kind of
procession, Loo coming last with
Alf, who had to be held tightly by
the hand lest he should break out
into gambols, and destroy all the
solemnity of the proceeding. Mrs
Clifford was sitting by the fire when
they went in, in an attitude of
thought. The candles were not
lighted, and it was very easy to suppose
that mamma herself looked
sad, and was quite in a state of
mind to be thus addressed. Harry
and Mary, rather ashamed of themselves,
were already carrying on a
quiet scuffle at the door when Loo
came up to them. “You go first,
Harry”—“No, you,” they were
saying to each other. “Oh, you
stupid, stupid children, you have
no feeling!” cried Loo, bitterly, as
she swept past them. Mrs Clifford
looked up with a smile, and held
out her hand, which she expected
to be grasped immediately by a
crowd of little fingers, but the
mother’s looks were dreamy to-night,
and some one else was before her
children in her thoughts. She was
startled when she felt Loo’s little
cold hand put into hers, and woke
up and pushed her chair back from
the fire to look at the little things
who stood huddled together before
her. “What is the matter?” said
Mrs Clifford.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Oh, mamma, mamma,” cried
Loo; her poor little voice grew
shrill, notwithstanding all her efforts.
She had to make a pause,
and to preserve her dignity had to
let Alf go, who immediately went
off to ride on the arm of the sofa,
and compromise the seriousness of
the scene. “Oh, mamma, dear,”
said Loo, feeling that no time was
to be lost, “we have come to say
that we will never believe anything;
that we know you love us, and will
always love us—and—and—we believe
in <em>you</em>; oh, mamma, we believe
in you, and we will always
stand by you, if everybody in the
world were on the other side.”</p>

<p class='c012'>Here Loo fell, choking with tears
and passion, on her mother’s footstool,
and laid her poor little head,
which ached with cold and crying,
on Mrs Clifford’s lap. The mother’s
eyes had woke up out of all their
dreaming. Perhaps it was as well
the candles were not lighted. That
cheek which the widow screened
with her hand was as crimson and
as hot as Harry’s had been reading
over the fire. She was glad Loo’s
keen eyes were hidden upon her
lap; she blushed, poor tender woman
as she was, before her children.
The little woman-daughter
was dreadful to her mother at the
moment—a little female judge,
endued with all the awfulness of
nature, shaming the new love in
her mature heart.</p>

<p class='c012'>“What does this all mean, children?”
said Mrs Clifford, trying to
be a little angry, to conceal the
shock she had received.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Oh, please mamma, it’s Loo,”
cried Mary, frightened. “She
made us come; it was one of her
passions.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“No, it was not one of her passions,”
said Harry, who was Loo’s
champion; “it was to tell mamma
we would always stand by her;
and so I will,” cried the boy on his
own account, kindling up, “if
there were any robbers or anything—for
I’m the eldest son when
Charley’s at school.”</p>

<p class='c012'>Loo heard this where she lay,
with her head on her mother’s lap;
she was incapable of speech or motion
almost, but she could not but
groan with impatience over the
stupidity of the children; and Alf
was riding loudly on the arm of
the sofa, shouting to his imaginary
horse. Loo gathered herself up
with a blush upon her cheeks; it
did not enter into her head to imagine
that her mother blushed much
more hotly and violently when the
little face unfolded itself slowly out
of her lap.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Hush! Loo, don’t say any
more,” said Mrs Clifford; then
with a little effort the mother put
her arm round the child and drew
her close. “I understand what you
mean—but you must not say any
more,” she said; then she stooped
down her hot cheek upon that wet
one of poor Loo’s. “We shall all
be very happy, I hope,” said Mrs
Clifford in the dark, in her little
daughter’s ear. “I am doing it—for—for
all your sakes, dear. He
will stand by you and me, and all
of us, Loo. I hope we shall be—very
happy—happier even than we
are now,” said Mrs Clifford, with a
faint little tremble in her voice and
quiver at her heart. When she had
kissed Loo, and the child had gone
away to compose herself, poor Mary,
the mother, sat for a long time looking
into the fire with a terrible misgiving
upon her—“happier even
than we are now.” Ah! just then
she had been so happy—all well in
the prosperous, plentiful house;
not an ache or a trouble that she
knew of among all her children;
not a single look of love dimmed
to her yet by her resolution; and
the new love, sweet as any girl’s
dream, restoring to her firmament
all the transitory delicious lights
of youth. Somehow that prospect
darkened under a strange cloud of
alarm and shame when the mother
felt her cheeks flush at the look of
her woman-child. “I am doing it
for—all their sakes,” she tried to
say to herself; but her innocence
grew like guilt as she felt in her
heart that this pretence was not
true.</p>

<h4 class='c010'>CHAPTER IV.—HER OWN THOUGHTS.</h4>

<p class='c011'>Mrs Clifford had not much time
to think that night, and the impression
went off her when she was
in her lover’s company—which was
very nearly always; for, long before
this had been thought of, Tom
Summerhayes had been the soul of
everything at Fontanel. She had
come so gradually to consult him
about everything—to take his counsel
upon small and great that happened—that
it seemed only natural
now that he should belong to
her; but after Loo’s little scene a
variety of annoyances came upon
Mary—indications of the world’s
opinion—evidences that it did not
seem so natural to other people as
to herself. Even Charley’s schoolboy
letter was rather dreadful to
his mother. The boy bestowed his
approbation upon her match, and
was to stand by her, too, in Loo’s
very vein; and the mother felt more
humbled by thus obtaining the consent
of her children than she would
have been by the sacrifice of all she
had in the world. Still it never
came into her head to give up her
marriage—never, perhaps, till a day
or two before, when things were
much too far advanced for any
drawing back, and when she sat
alone by her fire, with her desk
open before her, late at night when
all the household were asleep. In
her desk were various little matters
which had been treasures to Mary
Clifford. She took them out with
trembling hands—a withered flower,
given to her, oh, so long ago, when
she was little more than a child, and
preserved with girlish romance; a
little ring made of hair, which she
had worn in her days of betrothal;
a little faded drawing,
made by herself at the same period,
of her early lover; and last and most
important of all, some letters—not
many, but very tender—the love-letters
of her youth. How she had
cried over them many a sad day
after her Harry died; how she had
gradually forgotten them again and
left them in their safe concealment;
how of late she had rather avoided
the place where they were, and
shrank from touching the little
desk that contained them; and
now, at last, upon the eve of her
second wedding, here they were all
spread out before her, to be disposed
of somehow. Mary’s treasures!
she had heard them called
so—had called them so herself.
What were they now?</p>

<p class='c012'>Poor, little, soft, tender-hearted
woman! There was no passion in
her. She was in love with all her
heart, but it was affectionately, not
passionately, or else she never could
have opened that desk. She took
out the flower, and cried, and looked
at it; then, with a hasty impulse,
put it softly on the fire, and watched
it blaze into sudden ashes, and cried
again, and felt guilty to her heart.
“I was such a child,” she said to
herself in her tears, and took a kind
of melancholy comfort from thinking
how young she had been when
she was first a bride. Then she
looked at her own drawing, which
was not the least like him, and
thought with a compunction of her
Harry. Poor Harry! All this
bright house, all these dear children,
were his as well as hers; but
he was put away in the family
vault, poor fellow, and nothing was
henceforward to belong to him in
this living world—not even the
name he had given her, not her
thoughts, not any of her heart. She
cried over that too like the rest.
She put up the ring in a little
parcel for Loo—she laid aside the
portrait for little Harry. She tried
to indemnify him by making over
all those little mementoes, which
it troubled her to look at, to his
children. Then she took up the
bundle of yellow letters and timidly
opened one of them, and read a few
sentences. There she read of the
young love that was never to die,
never to know change. Poor Mary
put them away again with a sob
almost of terror, and hastily locked
up the desk, and resolved to put it
away somewhere out of sight. She
could not examine any further into
those “treasures” which had become
ghosts. She drew her chair
to the fire, and shivered in her
thoughts. She was a simple-minded
woman, not wise, but moved by
every wind of feeling. It came to
her mind just then to recollect
how, in her first widowhood, she
had taken comfort from the thought
that Harry was near and saw her
tears for him, and knew how faithful
her poor heart was. Now that
thought was too much for Mary’s
strength. She gave a cry of helpless
terror when it occurred to her.
Alas, for that immortality of union
which comforts the heart of grief!
What if Harry met her at the very
gates of heaven when she got there,
and claimed her, she who was going
to be another man’s bride? Sitting
alone in the night, with all the
household asleep, and such thoughts
for companions, it was not wonderful
if a panic seized upon Mrs
Clifford’s heart. Poor Harry, who
had loved her so well, appeared
like a pursuing spectre to the soft
little woman. If it was true that
she belonged to him for ever and
ever, how could she dare to love
Tom Summerhayes? and if she did
not belong to him for ever and
ever—he who had loved her to the
end, and had never done anything
to forfeit her affection—what was
the hereafter, the heaven where
love, it appeared, could not be immortal?
These fancies wrung poor
Mary’s heart. She did not know
any answer to make to them. The
question put by the Sadducees nohow
answered her case. She who
blushed before her children, how
could she ever look Harry in the
face? She felt herself an infidel,
trembling and crying over that
everlastingness which had once
given her such consolation. That
Harry could ever cease to love her,
nature contradicted as impossible.
He was in heaven, far off, unseen,
fixed in solemn unchangeableness
in all the elevation of love and
grief he died in, never to alter;
and she?—— Step by step unconsciously
that elevation of grief and
love had died away from her in the
changing human days, and now here
she sat weeping, trembling, thinking
with awe of Harry, wondering
how he would claim her hereafter,
how she could dare name his name
when she was another man’s wife.
Poor little trembling soul! She
stole away to bed when she could
bear it no longer, and sought refuge
in sleep with the tears still in
her eyes, some grand and desperate
resolution of making a sacrifice of
herself being in her mind, as was
natural. She had troubled dreams,
and woke up quite unrefreshed in
the morning, which was very unlucky
that day of all others, because
the lawyers were coming, and all her
business affairs were to be settled
before her marriage. However,
Mrs Clifford could not remember
at her first waking what it was
which had thrown such a cloud
upon her; and when her thoughts
of the previous night did return
to her mind, they were neither so
intolerable nor so urgent as they
had been. In the daylight, somehow,
those gates of heaven, at
which Harry might be standing to
claim her, looked a very far way
off to the bride of Tom Summerhayes—there
was no such immediate
certainty of Harry’s existence
anyhow, or of the kind of interest
he might take in her proceedings;
and the philosophy of the question
did not recur to her mind with
those puzzling and hopeless speculations.
She was a great deal more
content to accept the present and
to postpone the future—to let hereafter
take care of itself—than she
had been at night. She put away
the desk with Harry’s letters in a
dark vacant upper shelf of a bookcase
in her own dressing-room; there,
where she could not even see it, it
would no longer witness against
her. It was a sunny morning, and
the children came in all fresh and
rosy to say their prayers, and there
was a note from Mr Summerhayes
on the breakfast-table, naming the
hour at which the law people were
to arrive. Mrs Clifford had recovered
her colour and her spirits
before they came; she was a little
agitated, and looked very pretty
in the commotion of her heart.
Hers was a position very peculiar
and interesting, as Mr Gateshead
himself, the old family solicitor,
suggested, as he read over the deed
she was to sign. He was perfectly
pleased with the arrangements altogether,
and said that Mr Summerhayes
had behaved most honourably
and in the most gentlemanly
way. It was very clear that <em>his</em>
motives were not mercenary. The
deed Mrs Clifford had to sign was
one by which Fontanel and all its
dependencies was settled upon her
eldest son, she retaining the life-interest
in it which her husband
had meant her to have. Mr Summerhayes,
who had been brought up
for the bar, had himself advised Mr
Gateshead in the drawing up of
this important document. The new
bridegroom was anxiously solicitous
that the children should be
portioned and the property distributed
exactly as the family agent,
who knew poor Clifford’s mind,
would have advised him to settle
it; and the deed was irrevocable
and framed in the most careful
manner, so that no ingenuity of the
law could make it assailable hereafter.
It was so rigid in all its
provisions that poor Mary wavered
a little over it. She thought it
scarcely fair that <em>he</em> should be shut
out entirely from every interest in
all this wealth, which, at the present
moment, belonged absolutely
to herself. It was Mr Summerhayes
himself who put, with a certain
gentle force, the pen into her hands,
and pointed exactly to the spot
where she was to sign. “I have
<em>you</em>, Mary,” he said in her ear, as
he leant over her to keep the parchment
steady; and Mary Clifford
signed away all her power and secured
her children’s rights, with “a
smile on her lip and a tear in her
eye,” feeling to her heart the delicious
flattery. What she possessed
was nothing to him—he had <em>her</em>,
and a kingdom could not make him
happier. So said the tone of his
whisper, the glance of his eye, and
the echo of her heart. This living
Love which stood by her side, securing
so carefully that Harry Clifford’s
wealth should go to Harry
Clifford’s heirs, and seeking only
herself for its own, completely
swallowed up poor Clifford’s ghost,
if that forlorn spirit might by
chance be cognisant of what was
passing. Mary remembered no
more her qualms and misgivings;
and the prospect before her—now
that the very children had got used
to it, had ceased either to oppose or
to stand by her, and had fallen into
natural excitement about the approaching
festivities, the guests
who were to be at Fontanel, the
new dresses, the great event about
to happen—looked as bright as the
glowing day.</p>

<h4 class='c010'>CHAPTER V.—THE MARRIAGE.</h4>

<p class='c011'>Fontanel received a considerable
party of guests for the marriage.
Miss Laura and Miss Lydia, who
were to be at the head of affairs
while the new Mrs Summerhayes
was absent on her wedding tour,
arrived two days before, that they
might get into the ways of the
place, and know what was required
of them, which was not very much,
for Mary was but a languid housekeeper.
Then there were two
aunts, an uncle, and some cousins
of Mrs Clifford, none of whom in
the least approved of the match,
though decorum and curiosity and
kindness prompted them to countenance
poor Mary in her foolishness,
notwithstanding their general
surprise, like Miss Harwood, that
she had not the sense to know when
she was well off. Then there was
Charley from Eton, who had grown
so much lately, that his mother
blushed more than ever when he
kissed her and said something kind
about her marriage. These were
not pleasant days for poor Mrs Clifford.
She knew in her heart that
nobody particularly approved of
her, not even Tom’s sisters—that
people were saying it was just what
was to be expected, and that a
woman left at her age with so much
property in her hands was sure to
make a fool of herself. She knew
that the ladies when they got together
had little conversations over
her—that one wondered why she
could not make herself happy with
these dear children, and another
with this fine place—and that a
third mused what poor Mr Clifford
would have said could he have
known. Poor Mary was very thankful
when the day dawned on her
wedding-morning—she was glad, as
brides seldom are, of the arrival of
the fated moment which was to
place things beyond the reach of
censure or criticism, and relieve her
from her purgatory. The Rector of
Summerhayes had not been called
on to do that piece of duty. The
bridegroom luckily had a friend
whose privilege it was; and still
more luckily there was a little old
disused church within the grounds
of Fontanel in which the ceremony
was to be performed, without the
necessity of encountering the gaze
and remarks of the village. It was
not intended to be a pretty wedding
or to put on those colours of
joy which become the espousals of
youth. Mingled and complicated,
as are the thoughts of middle age,
were the feelings of the two who
stood side by side before the bare
rural altar. The bridegroom was
slight and tall in figure, with a careless
languid air, through which occasionally
a little gleam of excitement
sparkled. If you watched him
closely you could see that his mind
was no way absorbed in the ceremonial
of his marriage. The quick
sudden glance here and there under
his eyelids, of those cold but clear
grey eyes, turned inquiringly to
everything within his range. He
read in the looks of the clergyman,
even while he pronounced the
nuptial blessing, what his opinion
was of the entire transaction. He
penetrated the mask of propriety in
which the bride’s relations concealed
their feelings—he investigated
with oft-repeated momentary glances
the face of Charley, who stood in
his Etonian certainty of manhood,
premature but not precocious, near
his mother’s side. Mr Summerhayes
even scanned, when all was
over, the downcast countenance of
Loo, who stood behind, watching
with stout endurance, and resolute
not to cry during the entire ceremony.
What was the meaning
which lay in those quick furtive
darts of the bridegroom’s eye it
was impossible to say; his closest
friend could not have elucidated
this strange secret by-play, of which
nobody in the company was conscious,
except, perhaps, one child;
but one thing it proved at any
rate, that his heart at this special
moment was not engrossed, to the
exclusion of everything else, by his
bride.</p>

<p class='c012'>Mary was much less mistress of
herself. She cried quietly under
her veil as she stood and listened
to the familiar words. She repeated
those that fell to her with a little
shiver. In her heart she could
not but feel what a terrible act she
was completing as she vowed her
love and obedience over again, and
separated her future from her past.
But Mary, with her downcast eyes,
was insensible to everybody’s opinion
at that moment. Had she been
standing in a wilderness she could
not have felt more isolated. She
was conscious only of her new husband
by her side—of an indistinct
figure before her—of God above and
around, a kind of awful shadow looking
on. Mr Summerhayes was aware
of her tears, and they moved him
so that his colour heightened involuntarily,
and he pressed her hand
with a warning pressure when it
came to that part of the ceremony.
But Mary herself was not aware
that she was crying till she felt this
touch of remonstrance, which startled
her back into consciousness.
Such was this marriage, at which,
as at other marriages, people looked
on with various shades of sympathy
and criticism, and which, with all
its concealed terrors and outward
rejoicing, was the free act of hearts
uncoerced and acting only at their
own pleasure—a free act, suggested
by no third party, unless, perhaps,
it might happen to be a certain
grim inflexible Fate who, if the
reins are but yielded to her for a
moment, pursues her victim through
a throng of inevitable consequences.
But perhaps, when a woman is being
married like Mary Clifford, it
is a kind of comfort to her to feel
as if she could not help herself, rather
than to know that she is entering
all these new dangers voluntarily,
and in obedience to nobody’s
will but her own.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Well, I am sure, I wish them
every comfort in life,” said Miss
Harwood, as she stood leaning on
her brother’s arm at the hall door
of Fontanel, watching the carriage
drive off which contained the happy
pair. “She can’t feel much like a
bride, poor thing, leaving all these
children behind her. I am sure I
wish her every happiness. I hope
she’ll never live to repent it,” said
Miss Harwood, with a sigh.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Don’t be spiteful,” said the Rector.
“This is not a time for such
ill-omened wishes. It’s a very suitable
match, and I wish them
joy.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Oh, Mr Harwood,” said Miss
Laura, taking up her position at the
Rector’s other side, thus effecting
a natural separation from Mary’s
relations, who were comparing sentiments
a little apart from the
Summerhayes party—“a suitable
match! when dear Tom is well
known to represent the oldest family
in the county, and might have
married anybody—not to say a
word against dear Mary, who is
our sister now, and such a sweet
creature. But oh, Mr Harwood,”
cried Miss Lydia, who had interposed,
as usual, “to talk of a suitable
match!”</p>

<p class='c012'>“There are no suitable matches
nowadays. I don’t believe in ’em,
by Jove!” said Major Aldborough,
who, with eyes slightly reddened
by champagne, was watching the
carriage just then disappearing down
the avenue.</p>

<p class='c012'>“But there might be, Major,” said
Miss Lydia, so softly that her sister
could not take up the meek remark.</p>

<p class='c012'>The Major only answered “By
Jove!” under his breath. He was
startled by the close vicinity—the
gentle look—the mild suggestion.
He moved a little away in a momentary
panic. There was never
any telling, as he said to himself,
what these women might mean.</p>

<p class='c012'>“It is so strange to be left in charge
of the house,” said Miss Laura,
“it gives one such a funny feeling.
I don’t know how in the world
we shall do with all the responsibility;
but dear Mary insisted upon
it, you know—though I am sure Mrs
Tansey would have been much more
suitable for the head of the table
than one of us, who are so inexperienced,”
cried Miss Lydia; “but
dear Mary thought it best for the
children’s sake. I hope, dear Mrs
Tansey, you don’t mind being our
guest,” proceeded the sisterly duet;
“dear Mary thought it of such importance
that the children should
get used to us—though they know
us perfectly well, still things are
all so different; though otherwise,
of course, she would so much have
preferred you.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Oh, pray, don’t think it necessary
to apologise for my niece to me,
Miss Summerhayes,” said the offended
aunt. “Mary has consulted
her own inclinations, and so long
as she is happy, that is all <em>we</em> can
<em>possibly</em> want of her. I think she
is <em>quite</em> right to make friends, if she
can, in her new family. She knows
she can always calculate upon <em>us</em> if
she ever wants any service,” added
the bride’s relation, with a slight
heightening of colour and the
ghost of a curtsy. The Miss Summerhayes
were not unequal to the
emergency.</p>

<p class='c012'>“We all know how much poor
dear Mary is liked among her own
friends,” cried Miss Lydia. “Your
dear girls were so fond of her last
year when they spent such a long
time at Fontanel; and dear Mary
has such a taste in presents,” said
Miss Laura, coming in so eagerly
that she began out of breath. “We
have gone shopping with her often
when she was buying her little
souvenirs. I hope you don’t think
it will make any difference now she
is married again. She is <em>so</em> affectionate;
but as for wanting services
from anybody, that is very unlikely,”
resumed the elder sister, “now
she has dear Tom. Dear Tom is so
very devoted,” said Miss Laura,
breaking in headlong. “You would
think she was only eighteen to see
all the attention he pays her. It is
quite sweet to see them, like two
turtle-doves.”</p>

<p class='c012'>Such being the conversation that
succeeded immediately upon the
departure of the bridal pair, it is
not to be supposed that the dinner-table
was spread with a very joyful
feast, or that the evening was spent
in much happiness. Mary’s relations,
who had up to this time felt
themselves much at ease at Fontanel,
kept greatly by themselves
during the remainder of the wedding-day.
Their occasional minglings
with the Summerhayes party
called forth bursts of smart dialogue,
more exciting than amiable,
and the opposing sides contended
much for the notice of Loo
and the other children, when they
came down-stairs in their new
dresses after dinner. It made little
Loo’s heart sick to feel herself enfolded
in the embraces of Miss
Lydia and Laura on one side, and
then to be talked to and admonished
by Aunt Tansey on the other,
who hoped she would be a good
girl, and a great comfort to her poor
mother. The children could not
tell what to make of the aspect of
affairs. Mamma gone, who was the
sun and centre of the domestic
world, and already a new rule and
vague possibilities of change in the
startled house. Down-stairs among
the servants, though the means of
merry-making were plentiful, this
threatening cloud was even more
apparent. A new master, known
to like “his own way,” was an
alarming shadow impending over
the little community hitherto mildly
and liberally governed by the
mistress, whom her servants could
scarcely forgive for the step she had
taken. “With five lovely children
and every blessin’ as this world could
afford,” as the housekeeper said, shaking
her troubled head. The new
husband by no means ranked among
the blessings of Providence to the
mistress of Fontanel in anybody’s
judgment, and nowhere was Mary’s
rash act resented more warmly than
in the servants’ hall.</p>

<p class='c012'>“But, Loo,” said Etonian Charley,
next morning, when Aunt Tansey
and all her belongings had left
Fontanel, and everything had fallen
under the restless sway of the Miss
Summerhayes, “I’m not going to
put up with all this. You said we
were to stand up for mamma; you
mean we are only to pretend to
stand up for mamma, you little
humbug. Now that’s not my meaning,”
said the heir of Fontanel.
“I’m not going to make-believe
that I think she’s done right, when
I don’t. I am going to swallow
cousin Tom right out,” cried the
boy, not without a little flush on his
face. “It’s a little awkward, to be
sure, to know what to call him—but
look here, Loo—I mean to stand by
my mother without any humbug.
I mean to think she’s done the very
best for us all, and for herself too;
and if she don’t think the same
when she comes back, I’ll try to make
her; and if you look black, as you’re
looking, you are not the little brick
I took you for, and I won’t have
anything more to do with you,
Loo.”</p>

<p class='c012'>“Oh, Charley, I am not half so
good as you are,” cried the admiring
little sister, looking up to him
with tearful eyes. Charley’s resolution
acted like a charm upon the
house in general; and so, with a
gradually improving temper, though
much pressed and fretted by Miss
Laura and Miss Lydia, the nursery
and the servants’ hall, and all the
dependencies of Fontanel, waited
for the advent of the new master
and the return of Mrs Summerhayes.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_301'>301</span>
  <h2 class='c002'>AN ENGLISH VILLAGE—IN FRENCH.<a id='r1'></a><a href='#f1' class='c015'><sup>[1]</sup></a></h2>
</div>

<p class='c016'>The old pictures of village life
in England will hardly suit for
these modern times. The pleasant
little social circle which either existed,
or more often was imagined
to exist, as in Miss Austen’s charming
fictions, in the large well-to-do
country village, is to be found there
no longer. No one condescends in
these days to live in the country,
unless he can either do so, or affect
to do so, more or less <i><span lang="fr">en grand
seigneur</span></i>. A change has passed over
‘Our Village,’ even since Mary Russell
Mitford so admirably sketched
it. The half-pay naval lieutenant
or army captain (if any such survive)
has retired into the back
street of a cheap watering-place, not
to the improvement either of his
position or his happiness. The village
surgeon is no longer an oracle;
railways have brought “the first
advice” (at any rate, in the county
town) within the reach of almost
all his patients; and he has either
disappeared altogether, or, if he still
exists as the “Union Doctor,” badly
paid and little respected, he is seldom
now a gentleman. Village lawyers—happily
or unhappily—are
become things unknown: and as
for any gentleman’s family of independent
but moderate means
condescending to that kind of rural
seclusion, it is unheard of. If there
is any educated resident in any
country village not fixed there by
some local interest or occupation, he
is apt to have something suspicious
about his character or antecedents—to
be a refugee from his lawful
creditors, or his lawful wife, or
something of that sort.</p>

<p class='c012'>So that English village life now
resolves itself mainly into that of
the parson; for the squire, even if
he be resident, scarcely forms part
of the same social circle. And as
to the rest, between the university
graduate, of more or less refinement
and education, and the opulent farmer
such as he is at present, there
lies a gulf which no fancy can exaggerate,
and which the best intentions
on both sides fail to bridge
over. Where village spires stand
thick together, where the majority
of the rectors or vicars are men of
the same way of thinking, and where
it is the fashion of the country to
be social, there is a good deal of
pleasant intercourse, no doubt, between
the parsons’ families, and as
much “society,” in the real if not
in the conventional sense, as is
needful to keep the higher elements
of humanity from stagnating;
but where parishes spread
far and wide over a poor or
thinly-populated district, or, worse
still, where religious sectarianism
reckons its clergy into “High”
and “Low,” and the Rector of A.
shakes his head and lifts his eyebrows
when any allusion is made
to the Vicar of B.—there, the man
whose lot has been cast in a country
parsonage had need have abundant
resources within himself, and
be supremely indifferent to the stir
of human interests without. He
will, in many cases, have almost as
far to ride in search of a congenial
neighbour as though he were in
the bush of Australia; he will find
something like the solitude of the
old monastery, without the chance
of its peace and quietness.</p>

<p class='c012'>Not that such a life is dull or
uninteresting, by any means, unless
in the unfortunate case of the man
finding no interest in his duties.
One of this world’s many compensations
is, that the busy man, be he
what else he may, is never dull, and
seldom discontented. So it is, almost
always, in the country parsonage;
without claiming any high
standard of zeal or self-devotion for
its occupants, there is probably at
least as much quiet enjoyment, and
as little idle melancholy or fretful
discontent, to be found among them,
as among any other class of educated
men.</p>

<p class='c012'>Still, it is a life which it would
be very difficult for a foreigner to
appreciate or understand. The relation
of the English country rector
to his villagers is totally unlike that
of the Lutheran or Roman Catholic
priest. Not claiming—or at least
not being in a position to maintain—anything
like the amount of spiritual
authority which is exercised by
the pastor under both these other
systems, he wields, in point of fact,
an amount of influence superior to
either. He cannot command the
servile and terrified obedience in
externals which is often paid by
the Irish and Italian peasant to
his spiritual guide; but he holds
a moral power over his parishioners—even
over those who professedly
decline his ministrations—of the extent
of which neither he nor they are
always conscious, but to the reality
of which the enemies of the Established
Church in England are beginning
to awake.</p>

<p class='c012'>The reading world has perhaps
been rather over-supplied, of late
years, with novelettes in which the
village parson, with some of the
very white or very black sheep of
his flock, have been made to walk
and talk more or less naturally for
their amusement and edification;
but the sight of a little French
book on the subject struck us as
something new. It is very desirable
that our good friends across
the Channel should know something
about our ways of going on
at home; and that not only in the
public life of large towns, or on
the highways of travel and commerce,
but in our country villages
and rural districts. But French attempts
at English domestic sketches
have not, on the whole, been successful.
It is, indeed, most difficult
for a foreign visitor to draw
pictures of society in any country
which would pass muster under the
critical examination of a native.
We took up this ‘Vie de Village
en Angleterre’ with some notion
of being amused by so familiar a
subject treated by a Frenchman;
but we soon found we were in very
safe hands. The writer knows us
well, and describes us admirably,
very much as we are; the foreign
element is just strong enough to be
occasionally amusing, but never in
any way ridiculous; and we should
be as much surprised at the correctness
of the writer’s observation
as charmed with the candour and
good taste of the little volume, if
we had not heard it credibly whispered
that, although written for
French readers (and in undeniable
French), it may be claimed as the
production of an English pen.</p>

<p class='c012'>Whatever may be the secret of
the authorship, the little book will
repay the reader of either nation.
It is written in the person of a
political refugee, who, armed with
one or two good introductions,
comes to pass a period of exile in
England. While previously travelling
in Switzerland, he has
made acquaintance with a Mr
Norris, an energetic country parson
of the modern “muscular”
type. He it is who persuades the
wanderer to study in detail, by
personal observation, that “inner
life” of England which, he has
already learnt to believe, and
rightly, forms and shapes, more
than anything else, her national
and political character. Hitherto,
as he confesses to his new acquaintance,
the coldness and reserve of
such English as he has met with
have rather frightened him; yet he
has always admired in them that
<i><span lang="fr">solidarité</span></i>—which we will not attempt
to translate. The hostility
between the labouring classes in
France and those above them has
always appeared to him the great
knot of political difficulties in that
country—a source of more danger
to real liberty and security than
any other national evil.</p>

<p class='c012'>He determines, therefore, to see
and study this domestic character
of England for himself—“not in
her political institutions, which we
Frenchmen have been too much
accused of wishing to copy, but in
that social life which may very
possibly explain the secret of her
strength and her liberty.”—(P. 22.)</p>

<p class='c012'>It was not his first visit to London;
and, arriving in the month
of March, he finds the climate as
bad, and the great city as dingy
and dirty, as ever. He does not
appear to have noticed our painful
efforts to consume our own smoke,
or our ambitious designs in modern
street architecture. On the other
hand, he mercifully ignores—if he
saw it—our Great Exhibition. The
crowded gin-palaces, and the state
of the Haymarket by night, disgust
him, as well they might; and he
escapes from the murky Babylon,
as soon as he has taken a few lessons
to improve his colloquial English,
to pay the promised visit to
his friend Mr Norris at his parsonage
at Kingsford; stopping on his
way to deliver a letter of introduction
to an English countess, an old
friend of his family, who has a seat
close to Lynmere, a sort of pet village,
where the ornamented cottages
form a portion of the park scenery.</p>

<p class='c012'>In his walk from the station, he
makes the acquaintance of a “Madame
Jones,” whose cottage, with
its wooden paling and scarlet geraniums,
abutting on the pleasant
common, has its door invitingly
open. He pauses to admire the
little English picture as he passes
by. Good Mrs Jones observes him,
and begs him to walk in; partly,
we must hope (and we trust all
foreign readers will believe), out
of genuine English hospitality—though
we doubt if all village
dames in Surrey would take kindly
to a Frenchman on the tramp—partly,
it must be confessed, with
the British female’s natural eye to
business. “Perhaps Monsieur was
looking out for a ‘<i><span lang="fr">petit logement</span></i>?’”
For Mrs Jones has two rooms to
let; and even a foreigner’s money,
paid punctually, is not to be despised.
Monsieur was looking out
for nothing of the kind, but he
takes the rooms forthwith; and
indeed any modest-minded gentleman,
French or English, who wanted
country board and lodging on a
breezy common in Surrey, could not
have done better. Here is what our
traveller gets for twenty-two shillings
a-week; we only hope it will
stop the mouths of all foreigners
who rail at the dearness of English
living, when they read here the
terms on which a <i><span lang="fr">petit logement</span></i> may
be found in a pleasant situation in
the home counties—two rooms,
“fresh and clean,” comfortably furnished
(with a picture of the Queen
and a pot of musk into the bargain),
and board as follows:—</p>

<p class='c017'>“For breakfast she gave me tea with
good milk, excellent bread-and-butter,
accompanied either by a rasher of broiled
bacon or fresh eggs. For dinner there
were often ‘<i><span lang="fr">ragouts avec force oignons</span></i>’
(Irish stew?), boiled mutton, or sometimes
a beef-steak ‘<i><span lang="fr">très-dur</span></i>,’ potatoes
and boiled cabbage, with a glass of good
beer and a bit of cheese. No dessert,
but occasionally a pudding. On Sundays,
roast-beef and plum-pudding were
apparently the rule without exception,
for they never failed to appear. The
tea in the evening was much the same as
the breakfast. If I had wished for supper,
I might have had cold meat, bread,
a lettuce, and a glass of beer.”</p>

<p class='c016'>If Mrs Jones be not as entirely
fictitious as Mrs Harris, and would
enclose us a few cards, we think we
could undertake that her lodgings
(with a countess and a pet village,
too, close by) should not be untenanted
for a week in summertime.
We feel sure, however, that
the good lady is <em>not</em> a creature of
mere imagination: when we read
the description of her, we recall her
as an old acquaintance, though we
cannot remember her address:—</p>

<p class='c017'>“As for this good woman’s personal
appearance, she had nothing attractive
about her except her scrupulous cleanliness.
Her age belonged to that mysterious
epoch comprised between forty and
sixty. She had an intelligent countenance;
but what was most marked about
her was a slightly military air, and a
black silk bonnet which, planted on the
top of her head, tilted forward over her
face, and usually concealed half of it.
The two strings were carefully pinned
back over the brim, and the ends fluttered
on each side the bonnet, like
the plume of a <i><span lang="fr">chasseur de Vincennes</span></i>.
That bonnet, she never left it off for a
moment; and my indiscreet imagination
went so far as to speculate what could
possibly become of it at night....
Though I had begged her to consider
herself absolute mistress in all domestic
matters—and though, moreover, I
should have found considerable difficulty
in ordering my own dinner—she never
failed to come in every morning at breakfast-time
‘for orders,’ as she called it.
It was a little ruse of hers to secure a
moment for the active exercise of her
somewhat gossiping tongue. I was enabled
to endure the torrent of words of
which good Mrs Jones disburdened herself
on such occasions the more philosophically,
inasmuch as she was nowise
exacting in the matter of an answer, and
now and then gave me some interesting
bits of information.”</p>

<p class='c016'>The contrast which follows is
drawn from a shrewd observation
of national characteristics on both
sides of the Channel:—</p>

<p class='c017'>“This respectable dame possessed in
a high degree the good qualities and the
defects of her class of Englishwomen.
In France, the manners of women of her
order are full of expansion and sympathy;
and a small farmer’s wife, however
ignorant she may be, will always
find means to interest you in her affairs,
and to enter into yours. In England,
on the contrary, with all her gossiping
upon trifling subjects, she will maintain
the strictest reserve, so far as you are
concerned, upon matters of any importance.
She serves you much better than
a Frenchwoman would, because she
looks upon you in the light of a master—a
guest whose rank and character
she makes the most of, because that
rank and character raise her in her own
estimation; but it is only in some very
exceptional case that she will talk to
you about anything which touches her
personally, or that she will venture to
confess that she is thinking about your
concerns—that would be, in her eyes,
a breach of proper respect.</p>

<p class='c018'>“This is the peculiar feature in the
relations between the different classes of
society in England. Society there is
profoundly aristocratic; there is no
tradesman, be he ever so professed a
Radical, who does not become a greater
man in his own eyes by receiving the
most commonplace act of courtesy from
a lord; no servant who does not feel an
additional satisfaction in waiting on a
master whose manners have a touch of
haughtiness, because such manners strike
him as a mark of superiority. It is just
as Rousseau says: ‘Clara consoles herself
for being thought less of than Julia,
from the consideration that, without
Julia, she would be thought even less of
than she is.’ The singular feature is,
that this kind of humility, which would
seem revolting to us in France, is met
with in England amongst precisely those
persons who are remarkable for their
moral qualities and for their self-respect.
It is because in them this deference becomes
a sort of courtesy, a social tact, of
which only a gentleman can understand
all the niceties—which, besides, implies
in their case nothing like servility—the
respect paid to superiors in rank is kept
within the limits of the respect due to
themselves. This peculiarity in English
manners struck me the more forcibly,
because it offers such a remarkable contrast
to what goes on among ourselves.”</p>

<p class='c016'>There follows, at some length,
a truthful and well-written exposition
of the healthful influence exercised
upon a nation by an aristocracy
like that of England—which
we must not stop to quote. ‘<i><span lang="fr">Revenons</span></i>‘—as
the author writes, asking
pardon for so long a digression—‘<i><span lang="fr">Revenons
à Madame Jones</span></i>.’</p>

<p class='c012'>That excellent landlady is careful
not only of the diet and other creature-comforts
of her new lodger,
but of his moral and religious wellbeing
also. A week of wet weather—which
the foreign visitor finds
sufficiently <em>triste</em>—is succeeded by
a lovely Sunday morning. The
Frenchman sallies out after breakfast
for a morning walk, with his
book under his arm—we are sorry
to say it was a ‘Tacitus’—with the
intention, we are left to suppose, of
worshipping nature on the common.
But Mrs Jones, though totally innocent
as to her lodger’s heretical
intentions, takes care to lead him
in the way that he should go.</p>

<p class='c017'>“‘Church is at eleven,’ Mrs Jones
called out to me, not doubting for an instant
that I should go there. I went
out; she followed me close, locked all
the doors, and, stopping for a moment at
the cottage next door to call for a neighbour,
continued her way. I was taking
another path, but was very soon arrested
by the hurried approach of Mrs Jones,
who, fancying I had mistaken my way,
came after me to show me the road to
church. Such perseverance on her part
made it evident that I should risk the
loss of her good opinion if I did not profit
by her instructions; so I walked
down the hill with her by a road which
wound between broad verges of green
turf overshadowed by lofty trees.”</p>

<p class='c016'>Thus fairly captured and led to
church in triumph, his behaviour
there was on the whole very decorous.
The impression likely to be
made on the mind of an intelligent
and well-disposed foreigner by the
simple and yet impressive service
in a well-ordered village church is
very nicely described. It is true
that Mrs Jones’s prisoner, according
to his own account, mingles with
the very proper reflections natural
to such a place “those inspired by
the volume of Tacitus which he
held open before him for decency’s
sake” (and which, we fear, must have
imposed itself upon the good lady
as a French prayer-book); a little
touch which, whether written by a
Frenchman or not, and whether
meant for truth or satire, is very
French indeed. He finds time also
to notice the features of the building
itself, and its arrangements.
The “tribune” in the gallery where
the Countess performs her devotions,
and the high enclosure with
drawn curtains—“a sort of <i><span lang="fr">petit
salon</span></i>”—which protects the family
of Mr Mason, the squire, from the
more vulgar worshippers, do not
strike the visitor, we rejoice to say,
as happy illustrations of the aristocratic
feeling in Englishmen; and
it is evidently with a quiet satisfaction
that he learns subsequently
that “<em>puséisme</em>” is trying to do
away with such distinctions.</p>

<p class='c012'>An invitation to dinner from the
Countess gives him at once the <em>entrée</em>
to the best society in Lynmere
and its neighbourhood. He finds
his first English dinner-party a very
dull affair; but he was surely peculiarly
unfortunate in his company,
if we are to take his account of the
after-dinner conversation amongst
the gentlemen: “At the end of a
short time, two of the guests were
asleep, and I would willingly have
followed their example.” The remarks
which follow, however, touch
with more truth upon one of the
defects in our social intercourse:—</p>

<p class='c017'>“These dinners of ceremony (and
there are scarcely any other kind of entertainments
in the country amongst the
higher classes) take place between neighbours,
usually about twice in the year:
scarcely any one except the clergyman
enjoys the privilege of being received
with less of etiquette. It follows that
it is very possible to pass one’s life
for ten years in the same spot, without
having any really intimate association
with any one of one’s neighbours.
There are very few English people who
do not regret it. Yet such is the despotism
of custom, that it is rare to find
any family which dreams of freeing itself
from the trammels of this etiquette.”</p>

<p class='c016'>Here and there, of late, the links
of this social despotism, under which
we have groaned so long, show
symptoms of giving way. The advance
of fashion has done good
service in one respect, that the
modern service <i><span lang="fr">à la Russe</span></i>, adopted
in all good houses, has struck a decisive
blow at the old English heavy
dinner; and just as the fashion has
long died out of pressing one’s
guests to eat more than they wish,
so the fashion is coming in of not
thinking it necessary to put upon
the table three times more than can
by any possibility be eaten. When
small dinners become “the thing”
even amongst the great people,
there is hope that their lesser imitators
will follow the example.
And whenever the mistresses of small
families will learn that good and
careful cookery is quite as cheap as
bad, and much more wholesome,
and will condescend to go back not
only to their great-grandmothers’
hoops, but to their household receipt-books,
they may venture to invite
their personal friends without compunction
to a pleasant family-dinner,
to the great furtherance of real
sociability, and get rid for ever of
those annual or biennial festivals
which are a burden to the weary
souls of guests and entertainers.</p>

<p class='c012'>The foreign visitor becomes, in a
very short time, established on a
footing of intimacy with the family
of Mr Mason, a magistrate and
landed proprietor residing in the
parish, in whose household Mrs Jones
has formerly lived as nurse. The
introduction through the Countess
on the one part, and on the other
the warm eulogies of good Mrs
Jones (who is never tired of sounding
the praises of her old master and
the young ladies whom she has
brought up), may serve in some degree
to explain the somewhat rapid
adoption of “Monsieur” as a family
friend into the thrice-guarded circle
of an English household. On his
part, indeed, we soon discover quite
a sufficient attraction. There is a
pale pensive sentimental “Miss
Mary,” quite the sort of young lady,
we should say, to take the fancy
of a romantic Frenchman in exile;
but as she does not happen to take
ours especially, we confess to have
found no particular interest in this
new version of ‘Love in a Village,’
and shall leave our younger readers
to enjoy the romance of the little
book for themselves, without forestalling,
even by a single hint, its
course or its conclusion. So far as
relates to Monsieur himself, we repeat,
we can quite understand how
readily he responded to the warm
adoption of his new English friends.</p>

<p class='c017'>“Mr Mason consulted me about his
son’s studies, Mrs Mason confided to me
her anxieties as the mother of a family;
and Mary—whose ardent and poetic
soul felt the need of an intellectual sympathy
which failed her in her own family—threw
into her conversation with me
an openness and vivacity which surprised
her relatives.”</p>

<p class='c016'>Nothing of the sort surprises us.
What we were rather surprised at
was, that Mr Mason <em>père</em>, a grave
county dignitary and practical man
of business, should have taken to
his bosom, in this ardent and gushing
fashion, the most agreeable,
most intellectual, and most amiable
foreigner that ever lived. At first
we thought it a mistake—a patent
defect and improbability in an otherwise
sensible and natural book. The
author’s casual attempt to account
for it by the fact that Mr Mason was
fond of billiards and of backgammon,
and found in his new acquaintance
an idle man generally ready
to play a game, does not in the least
harmonise with the usual character
and habits of country gentlemen
past sixty, or of Mr Mason in particular.
But when we read that this
excellent individual, like so many
others of his class, has gone largely
into turnips—and that his French
visitor, wishing to know all about
English country life, and knowing
that such a life is nothing without
turnips, determined, amongst his
other travelling studies, to study an
English model farm, and, when his
host proposed a visit to that beloved
establishment, accepted the invitation
with “<em>empressement</em>,” and listened
for hours to bucolic talk with
“<i><span lang="fr">un grand interest</span></i>,”—then we no
longer wonder for an instant at the
eternal friendship which the English
member of the “Royal Agricultural”
suddenly and silently vowed to his
guest. Long and painful experience
of visits paid to these excellent people
in the country—reminiscences of
the inevitable walk over ploughed
fields—the plunging into long dark
galleries where unfortunate beasts
were immured for life to be turned
into beef, a process which should be
mercifully hidden from the eyes of
every good Christian—the yawns
unsuccessfully stifled—the remarks
answered at random—the senseless
questions desperately volunteered
out of politeness on the visitor’s
part, betraying the depth of his incapacity
and ignorance;—these must
rise before many a reader’s mind as
well as our own, and make them feel
what a treasure the scientific agriculturist
had found in the inquiring
Frenchman, who walked and talked
and listened, not only without a
complaint or a yawn, but positively
because he liked it. Enterprising
foreigners have been said to have
tried to make their way into English
country society, before now,
through the introduction of the
hunting-field, not always with success;
perhaps they may be inclined
to take a hint from this little book,
and, in quiet family cases, try the
turnips.</p>

<p class='c012'>The visits to Mr Mason’s farm-cottages
give the traveller the opportunity
of drawing a contrast between
the habits and aspirations of agricultural
labourers in the two countries:—</p>

<p class='c017'>“That passion for becoming proprietors,
so widely spread in our own country
districts, is unknown, and probably will
long continue so, amongst the agricultural
classes in England. The example
of Ireland [it might have been added, of
Wales], where the land has been very
much subdivided, and where the population
which maintains itself on it has become
excessive, has strengthened the
opinion amongst large landed proprietors
in England as to the evil effects of small
holdings. I think I scarcely exaggerate
when I say that certainly, in the southern
counties of England, a peasant possessing
an acre of land would be a rarity.
Probably it is to this impossibility of
becoming small proprietors that we must
attribute the taste which the labouring
classes in England show for ornamenting
their houses. If a working man has saved
any money, he will employ it in buying
a set of furniture, and making his cottage
look gay; whereas, in France, he
would have laid it aside in the hope of
acquiring a bit of land; so that nothing
can be more different than the wretched
cabins of our own rural districts and the
cottage of an English labourer, with its
many little appliances of comfort and
even luxury. In general the English
peasant lives much less sparingly, and
spends upon his meal twice as much as
the French: it is true that the climate
requires a more substantial style of diet.”</p>

<p class='c016'>These observations would have
been more strictly true if they had
been made a few years ago. Within
that time the passion for property
has sprung up not only amongst
those who call themselves “operatives”
(journeymen weavers, shoemakers,
&#38;c.), but even, to a certain
extent, amongst farm-labourers. Recent
alterations in the laws of partnership
have encouraged what are
called “co-operative societies,” who
not only open “stores” for the sale
of all the necessaries of life, on the
joint-stock principle of division of
profits, but build cottages which, by
certain arrangements, may become
the property of the tenant. A whole
village has just been built in Yorkshire,
on this principle of the tenants
becoming eventually the landlords.
Not only this, but the same desire
for independence—an excellent feeling
in itself—is leading the same
class to purchase cottage property
whenever it comes into the market.
If this ambition to become a purchaser
were confined to a desire upon
every man’s part to feel himself
absolute master of the home he lived
in, then, whatever large proprietors
or able political economists might
have to say, it would be an object
which would deserve the very highest
respect. But, unfortunately, the
feeling is not altogether that of desiring
to live in peace under one’s
own vine and fig-tree: it is the wish
to have a tenement to let out to
others. It is comparatively seldom
that a small piece of land, suited to
the sum at such a purchaser’s command,
is thrown into the market.
Cottages, on the other hand, are
continually advertised for sale; the
working-man, eager to secure his bit
of real property, gives for them a
sum far beyond their value—a sum
which the capitalist or large proprietor
will not give; and in order
to make his purchase pay, he either
proceeds at once to divide a comfortable
dwelling into two, or raises
the rent upon his more needy tenant.
The evil consequences are twofold;
the neighbouring landowner, who
ought to have the cottages for his
own labourers, who would keep
them in good repair, and let them
at moderate rents, has been driven
out of the market; and either a
lower class of tenant, continually
changing and being “sold up,” is
introduced; or the honest labourer
is compelled to pay to this new
landlord of his own class a rent out
of all proportion to the accommodation
supplied him.</p>

<p class='c012'>It is to be hoped that this growing
evil (for evil it is) may be met by
the increased liberality of landed
proprietors in building good and
sufficient cottages for the labourers
on their own estates. In the case
of the humbler artisans, in towns
especially, one does not see the remedy
except in the questionable
shape of legislative restrictions.</p>

<p class='c012'>But we have almost forgotten our
foreign exile’s travelling acquaintance,
Mr Norris, the hearty and
genial English clergyman at whose
invitation he first set himself to
study English life. Before finally
taking up his quarters at Lynmere,
he has paid the promised visit to his
friend in his parsonage at Kingsford;
“a pretty Gothic <em>chateau</em>,” furnished
with the taste of a gentleman
and a scholar; a residence whose
somewhat luxurious belongings, its
ample library, and the well-chosen
prints which grace its walls, when
contrasted in the writer’s mind with
the humble abode of the French
village <i><span lang="fr">curé</span></i>, give rise to reflections
“not wholly to the disadvantage of
the latter.” We, on the other hand,
must warn any foreign reader who
may draw the contrast for himself,
that Kingsford Parsonage is a very
exceptional case indeed. Mr Norris
is discovered, somewhat to his
French visitor’s surprise, clad in
“a strange costume of white flannel,”
not altogether sacerdotal; “<i><span lang="fr">Je
suis habillé en cricketer</span></i>,” is the parson’s
explanation. The fact is, he
has just been playing cricket with
his pupils, half-a-dozen young men
in preparation for the Universities.
The simple and orderly habits of
the household, the breakfast at
eight, the dinner at one, the kindly
intercourse between the tutor and
his pupils, and the prosperity of a
well-ordered village under an energetic
pastor, are well described, and
will give our French neighbours a
very fair idea of such a life. A
little, a very little “<em>triste</em>,” our
visitor finds it, this English rural
life, with its rich green meadows
and grey sky, and slowly-winding
river, half hidden by its banks. One
needs, he considers, in order to find
happiness in such scenes, a hearty
love for simple nature, and a heart
“warmed with the sentiment of
duty fulfilled;” in short, he is of
Dr Johnson’s opinion, though he
puts it into much more complimentary
language—that “those who are
fond of the country are fit to live
in the country.”</p>

<p class='c012'>But if we cannot allow our French
friends to imagine that all English
country clergymen have their lot
cast in the pleasant places of Kingsford
and Lynmere, still less, we
fear, must they consider them (or
their wives) such wonderful economists
as, like Mr Norris, to maintain
all the quiet elegancies of a gentleman’s
establishment in a handsome
Gothic chateau (and to travel in
Switzerland besides), upon an ecclesiastical
income scarcely exceeding,
after all necessary deductions,
two hundred pounds a-year. True,
Mr Norris takes pupils and writes
for reviews—highly respectable vocations,
and profitable enough in
some hands, but scarcely open to
the majority of his brethren, and
not safe to be depended upon, as a
supplementary income, by young
clergymen on small preferments
who may feel no vocation for celibacy.
Mr Norris, indeed, is peculiarly
favoured in many respects as
regards money matters; for he has
been fortunate enough to have enjoyed
an exhibition at Oxford in
days when the word “exhibition”
(as we are informed in a note) meant
“a gratuitous admission to the University.”
Here we are certainly
stepping out of the ground of real
English life, where the writer has so
pleasantly guided us, into a highly
imaginative state of things. It
would have been a noble boast, indeed,
for us to have made to foreigners,
if it could have been made truly,
that Oxford, out of her splendid
endowments, offered, even occasionally,
“gratuitous admissions” to
poor and deserving scholars. It
was what the best of her founders
and benefactors intended and desired—what
they thought they had
secured for ever by the most stringent
and solemn enactments; but
what, unhappily, the calm wisdom
of the University itself has been as
far from carrying out as the busy
sweeping of a Reform Commission.</p>

<p class='c012'>The foreign visitor is naturally
very much impressed by an English
cricket-match. The puzzled admiration
which possesses him on the
occasion of his “assisting” at a
“<i><span lang="fr">fête du cricket</span></i>” is very amusingly
expressed. Throughout all his
honest admiration of the English
character, there peeps out a confession
that this one peculiar habit of
the animal is what he has failed
to account for or comprehend. He
tries to philosophise on the thing;
and, like other philosophical inquirers
when they get hold of facts
which puzzle them, he feels bound
to present his readers with a theory
of cause and effect which is evidently
as unsatisfactory to himself
as to them. He falls back for an
explanation on that tendency to
“solidarity” in the English temperament
which he has admired
before.</p>

<p class='c017'>“The explanation of the great popularity
of the game of cricket is that,
being always a challenge between two
rival bodies, it produces emulation and
excites that spirit of party which, say
what we will, is one of the essential
stimulants of public life, since in order
to identify one’s self with one’s party one
must make a sacrifice to a certain extent
of one’s individuality. The game of
cricket requires eleven persons on each
side, and each of the players feels that
he is consolidated (<i><span lang="fr">solidaire</span></i>) with his
comrades, in defeat as well as in victory....
That which makes the charm
of the game is, above all, the <em>solidarity</em>
which exists between the players.”</p>

<p class='c016'>This is a very pretty theory, but
scarcely the true one. In the public-school
matches, no doubt, and in
some matches between neighbouring
villages, the <em>esprit de corps</em> goes for
much; but, as a rule, we fear the
cricketer is a much more selfish
animal. His ambition is above all
things to make a good score, and
to appear in ‘Bell’s Life’ with a
double figure to his name. Just as
the hunting man, so that he himself
can get “a good place,” cares
exceedingly little for the general
result of the day’s sport; so
the batsman at Lord’s, so long as
he makes a good innings, or the
bowler so long as he “takes wickets”
enough to make a respectable figure
on the score, thinks extremely little,
we are sorry to say, of “solidarity.”
Whether the match is won or lost
is of as little comparative importance
as whether the fox is killed
or gets away. We notice the difference,
because it is a great pity it
should be so. The Frenchman’s
principle is by far the finer one;
and the gradual increase of this intense
self-interest in the cricket-field
is going far to nullify the other
good effects of the game as a national
amusement. One reason
why the matches between the
public schools are watched with
such interest by all spectators is,
that the boys do really feel and
show that identification of one’s self
with one’s party which the author
so much respects; the Harrow captain
is really much more anxious
that Harrow should beat Eton,
than that he himself should get a
higher score than Jones or Thompson
of his own eleven; and the enthusiastic
chairing of the hero of
the day is not, as he knows, a personal
ovation to the player, as to
a mere exhibition of personal skill,
but to his having maintained the
honour of the school.</p>

<p class='c012'>Our national ardour for this
game seems always incomprehensible
to a Frenchman. There is a
little trashy, conceited book now
before us, in which a French writer,
professing to enlighten his countrymen
upon English life, dismisses
this mysterious amusement in a definition,
the point and elegance of
which it would be a pity to spoil by
translation—“<i><span lang="fr">un exercice consistant
à se fatiguer et à donner d’autant plus
de plaisir qu’il avait fait répandre
d’autant plus de sueur</span></i>.”<a id='r2'></a><a href='#f2' class='c015'><sup>[2]</sup></a> He is careful,
at the same time, to suggest
that even cricket is probably borrowed
from his own nation—the
“<em>jeu de paume</em>” of the days of the
Grand Monarque. But the inability
of so shrewd and intelligent
an observer, as the foreign spectator
with whom we have to do at present,
to comprehend the real points
of the game, is an additional testimony
to its entirely English
character. The Etonian’s mamma,
who, as he relates with a
sort of quiet wonder, sat for five
hours on two days successively on
a bench under a hot sun, to watch
the match between her son’s eleven
and Harrow, would have given a
much better account of the game.
The admiring visitor does not pretend,
as he observes, to go into the
details of a game which has thirty-eight
rules; but he endeavours to
give his French readers some general
idea of the thing, which may
suffice for unprofessional lookers-on.
It is unnecessary to say that
the idea is very general indeed. The
“consecrated” ground on which the
“<i><span lang="fr">barrières</span></i>” are erected, and where
the “<em>courses</em>” take place, are a thoroughly
French version of the affair.
The “ten fieldsmen precipitating
themselves in pursuit of the
ball when struck” would be ludicrous
enough to a cricketer’s imagination,
if the thought of the probable
consequences were not too
horrible. Even such headlong zeal
on the part of two fieldsmen only,
with their eye on the same ball, has
resulted, before now, in a collision
entailing the loss of half-a-dozen
front teeth and other disfigurements.
It was unnecessary to exaggerate
the perils of a game which,
as our author observes, has its
dangers; and if the fieldsmen at
Lynmere conducted themselves after
this headlong fashion when he
was watching them, we can quite
understand his surprise that, when
the day concludes with the inevitable
English dinner, men who had
spent the whole day “in running,
striking, and receiving blows from
the ball to the bruising of their
limbs” (and precipitating themselves
against each other) should
still show themselves disposed to
drink toasts and make speeches for
the rest of the evening. The conversation
which he has with the
parish schoolmaster, an enthusiastic
cricketer, is good in its way:—</p>

<p class='c017'>“‘I hope you have enjoyed the day?’
said he to me. ‘You have had an opportunity
of seeing what cricket is. It’s
a noble game, is it not?’</p>

<p class='c018'>“‘Yes,’ said I, ‘it is a fine exercise;
and I think highly of those amusements
which bring all classes together under
the influence of a common feeling.’</p>

<p class='c018'>“‘It is not only that,’ replied the
excellent man: ‘but nothing moralises
men like cricket.’</p>

<p class='c018'>“‘How?’ said I, rather astonished to
hear him take such high ground.</p>

<p class='c018'>“‘Look here,’ he replied; ‘a good
cricketer is bound to be sober and not
frequent the public-house, to accustom
himself to obey, to exercise restraint
upon himself; besides, he is obliged to
have a great deal of patience, a great
deal of activity; and to receive those
blows of the ball without shrinking, requires,
I assure you, some degree of
courage.’”</p>

<p class='c016'>We suspect that these remarks belong
of right at least as much to the
French philosopher as to the English
national schoolmaster; but they
bring forward in an amusing way
the tendency of one-ideaed philanthropists,
which the author elsewhere
notices, to attribute to their
own favourite hobby the only possible
moral regeneration of society:</p>

<p class='c017'>“Every Englishman who is enthusiastic
in any particular cause never fails
to see in that the greatness and the glory
of his country; and in this he is quite
serious. In this way I have heard the
game of cricket held up to admiration
as one of the noblest institutions of
England, an institution which insures to
the country not only an athletic, but an
orderly and moral population. I have
seen the time when the same honour
was ascribed to horse-racing; but since
this sport has crossed the Channel, and
it has been found by experience that it
does not always preserve a country from
revolutions and <i><span lang="fr">coups d’état</span></i>, it has lost
something of its prestige in England.”</p>

<p class='c016'>There is always some moral
panacea in the course of advertisement,
like a quack medicine, to
cure all diseases: mechanics’ institutes,
cheap literature, itinerant
lecturers, monster music-classes,
have all had their turn; and just
at present the ‘Saturday Review’
seems to consider that the salvation
of England depends upon the
revival of prize-fighting.</p>

<p class='c012'>We cannot follow the writer into
all the details of village institutions
and village politics, which are
sketched with excellent taste and
great correctness. It will be quite
worth while for the foreigner who
wants to get a fair notion of what
goes on here in the country—or
indeed for the English reader who
likes to see what he knows already
put into a pleasant form, all the
more amusing because the familiar
terms look odd in French—to go
with our French friend to the annual
dinner of “<i><span lang="fr">Le Club des Odd-Fellows</span></i>,”
with its accompaniment “<i><span lang="fr">de speechs,
de hurrahs, et de toasts</span></i>”—without
which, he observes, no English festival
can take place; to accompany
him in his “<i><span lang="fr">Visite au Workhouse</span></i>,”
subscribe with him to the “<i><span lang="fr">Club de
Charbon</span></i>,” or, better still, sit with
him in the village Sunday-school,
even if we cannot take the special
interest which he did (for his own
private reasons) in “<i><span lang="fr">le classe de Miss
Mary</span></i>.” Very pleasant is the picture—not
overdrawn, though certainly
taken in its most sunshiny
aspect—of the charitable intercourse
in a well-ordered country
village between rich and poor. One
form, indeed, there is of modern
educational philanthropy which the
writer notices, of the success of
which we confess to have our
doubts. The good ladies of Lynmere
set up an “<i><span lang="fr">Ecole managère</span></i>”—a
school of domestic management,
we suppose we may call it—where
the village girls were to
learn cooking and other good works.
Now a school of cookery, admirable
as it is in theory—the amount of
ignorance on that subject throughout
every county in England being
blacker than ever was figured in
educational maps—presents considerable
difficulties in actual working.
To learn to cook, it is necessary
to have food upon which to
practise.  Final success, in that
art as in others, can only be the
result of a series of experimental
failures. And here was the grand
stumbling-block which presented
itself, in the case of a cooking-school
set up with the very best intentions,
under distinguished patronage, in
a country village within our own
knowledge. Some half-dozen girls,
who had left school and were candidates
for domestic service, were
caught and committed to the care
and instruction of an experienced
matron; not without some murmuring
on the part of village mothers,
who considered such apprenticeship
a waste of time,—all girls,
in their opinion, being born
cooks. From this culinary college
the neighbouring families were
to be in course of time supplied
with graduates. Great were the
expectations formed by the managers,
and by the credulous portion
of the public. There were to be no
more tough beef-steaks, no more
grumbling masters and scolding mistresses,
no more indigestion. But
this admirable undertaking split
upon a rock which its originators
had not foreseen. It had been proposed
that the village families
should in turn send dishes to be
operated upon by the pupils; but
the English village mind is not
given to experiments, culinary or
other, and preferred boiling its mutton
one day and eating it cold the
next. Then the bachelor curate,
who had a semi-official connection
with the new establishment, reading
prayers there as “chaplain and
visitor,” who was presumed to have
a healthy appetite, and was known
to have complained of the eternal
mutton-chops provided by his landlady,
was requested to undergo a
series of little dinners cooked for
him gratis. The bashful Oxonian
found it impossible to resist the
lady patronesses’ invitation, and
consented—for the good of the
institution. But it ended in the
loss to the parish of a very excellent
working parson. For a few
weeks, the experimental ragouts
and curries sent in to his lodgings
had at least the advantage of being
a change: but as the presiding matron
gradually struck out a bolder
line, and fed him with the more
ambitious efforts of her scholars, it
became too much even for clerical
patience, and he resigned his cure.
Out of delicacy to the ladies’ committee,
he gave out that it was “the
Dissenters;” but all his intimate
friends knew that it was the cooking-school.</p>

<p class='c012'>The Rector of Lynmere is a Mr
Leslie—a clergyman of the refined
and intellectual type, intended, probably,
as an artistic contrast to Mr
Norris in his cricket flannels. He
is, we are expressly told, “an aristocrat”—indeed,
a nephew of the
Countess aforesaid. He is reserved,
nervous, and diffident, although earnest
and single-hearted. The vulgar
insolence of the Baptists at the
vestry-meetings is gall and wormwood
to him; and he suffers scarcely
less under the fussy interference
of a Madam Woodlands, one of the
parish notables, of Low-Church
views and energetic benevolence,
who patronises the church and the
rector, and holds him virtually responsible
for all the petty offences
and indecorums which disturb the
propriety of the village. This lady
is very slightly sketched, but the
outline can be filled up from many
a parish clergyman’s mental notebook.
We do not wonder that Mr
Leslie, with his shrinking sensibilities,
had as great a horror of
her as of Mr Say, the Nonconformist
agitator, who led the attack
at the church-rate meetings. Only
we would remark, that if the author
thinks that the unfitness of
the Rector of Lynmere to contend
with a body of political Dissenters,
or his want of tact in dealing with
so very excellent and troublesome a
parishioner as Mrs Woodlands, is
at all explained by his being “an
aristocrat,” he is encouraging them
in a very common and very unfortunate
mistake. It is true that it
is not pleasant for a man of cultivated
mind and refined tastes, be
he priest or layman, to be brought
into contact with opponents whose
nature and feelings, and the manner
in which they express those feelings,
are rude and vulgar; but if
he possess, in addition to his refinement
and cultivation, good sound
sense, a moderate amount of tact,
and, above all, good temper, he will
find, in the fact of his being “a
gentleman,” an immense weight of
advantage over his antagonists. We
remember to have seen protests, in
the writings of a modern school of
English Churchmen, against what
they are pleased to term “the gentleman
heresy;” representing it as
dangerous to the best interests of
both priests and people, that the
former should attempt to combine
with their sacred office the manners,
the habits, and the social position
of the gentleman. Without
entering here into the serious question
whether a special clerical caste,
as it were, standing between the
lower ranks and the higher of the
laity, distinct from both, and having
its separate habits and position,
is a desirable institution to recommend;
without discussing the other
equally important question, whether
the aristocracy of a Christian nation
have not also <em>their</em> religious
needs, and whether these also have
not a right to be consulted, and
whether they will bear to be handed
over to a priesthood which, if not
plebeian itself, is to have at least
no common interests or feelings
with the higher classes—a question,
this latter, to which history will
give us a pretty decided answer;—it
is quite enough to say that the
working-classes themselves would
be the foremost to demand—if the
case were put before them fairly—that
the ministers of religion should
be “gentlemen” in every sense of
the word. They will listen, no
doubt, with gaping mouths and
open ears, to a flow of rhodomontade
declamation from an uneducated
preacher: an inspired tinker
will fill a chapel or a village-green,
while the quiet rector goes through
the service to a half-empty church.
But inspired tinkers are rare in any
age; and it is not excitement or declamation
which go to form the
really religious life of England.
This—which we must not be supposed
to confine within the limits
of any Church establishment—depends
for its support on sources
that lie deeper and quieter than
these. In trouble, in sickness,
in temptation, these things miserably
fail. And the dealing of “a
gentleman” with these cases—a
gentleman in manners, in thoughts,
in feeling, in respect for the feelings
of others—is as distinct in
kind and in effect, as the firm but
delicate handling of the educated
surgeon (who goes to the bottom of
the matter nevertheless) differs from
the well-meant but bungling axe-and-cautery
system of our forefathers.
The poor understand this
well. They know a gentleman, and
respect him; and they will excuse
in their parish minister the absence
of some other very desirable qualities
sooner than this. The structure
of English society must change—its
gentry must forfeit their character
as a body, as they never have
done yet—before this feeling can
change. When you officer your regiments
from any other class than
their natural superiors, then you
may begin to officer your national
Church with a plebeian clergy.</p>

<p class='c012'>There is another point connected
with the legitimate influence of the
higher classes on which the writer
speaks, we fear, either from a theory
of what ought to be, or from some
very exceptional cases:—</p>

<p class='c017'>“The offices of magistrate, of poor-law
guardian, or even of churchwarden, are
so many modes of honourable employment
offered to those who feel in themselves
some capacity for business and
some wish to be useful. It will be
understood that a considerable number
of gentlemen of independent income, retired
tradesmen, and officers not employed
on service, having thus before them
the prospect of a useful and active life,
gather round an English village, instead
of remaining buried in the great towns,
as too often is the case in our own
country.”</p>

<p class='c016'>We fear the foreign reader will
be mistaken if he understands anything
of the sort. The county magistracy
offers, without doubt, a
position both honourable and useful;
but it is seldom open to the
classes mentioned. We do not say
that the offices of parish guardian
and churchwarden are highly attractive
objects of ambition; but
we do think that in good hands
they might become very different
from what they are; immense benefit
would result in every way to
many country parishes, if men of
the class whom the writer represents
as filling them would more
often be induced to do so, instead
of avoiding them as troublesome
and ungrateful offices, and leaving
them to be claimed by the demagogues
and busybodies of the district.
It may not be pleasant for a
gentleman to put himself in competition
for an office of this kind;
but it may be his duty to do so.
The reproach which the writer addresses
to the higher classes in
France is only too applicable to
those in England also:—</p>

<p class='c017'>“If all those whose education, whose
intelligence, whose habits of more elevated
life, give them that authority which
constitutes a true aristocracy, would but
make use of their high position to exercise
an influence for good upon public
matters—if only the honest and sensible
party in our country would shake off its
apathy and fulfil all the duties of citizens—our
institutions would have a life
and power which at present are too often
wanting.”</p>

<p class='c016'>True words for the conservative
spirit both in the English Church
and in the English nation to lay to
heart; for, so long as education and
refinement are too nice to stain
themselves with the public dust of
the arena, they have no right to
complain if candidates, less able
but less scrupulous, parade themselves
as victors.</p>

<p class='c012'>If our neighbours over the water
read (as we hope many of them
will) these little sketches of an
English village, drawn in their own
language, if not by one of themselves,
yet by one who is evidently
no stranger to their national sympathies,
and who writes manifestly
with the kindest feelings towards
both, it is well, perhaps, that they
should bear in mind that it is a
picture purposely taken under a
sunny aspect. Rural England is
not all Arcadia. All English landladies,
even in the country, are
not Mrs Joneses, nor are all English
families as hospitable as the
Masons. There are villages where
there is no “Miss Mary” to
teach the children or to talk sentiment.
There are less fascinating
“strangers’ guides” which could
take him into the public-houses
and the dancing-rooms as well as to
rural fêtes and lectures, and show
him what goes on there. But
while we are far from claiming to
be judged by our bright side only,
we are glad that foreigners should
see our bright side sometimes. It
has not been too often painted in
French colours; and we trust they
will give the present artist’s work
a fair hanging in their National
Gallery.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_314'>314</span>
  <h2 class='c002'>LORD MACKENZIE’S ROMAN LAW.<a id='r3'></a><a href='#f3' class='c015'><sup>[3]</sup></a></h2>
</div>

<p class='c016'>It has sometimes been suspected
that, in the noble delineation of the
Roman character ascribed to Anchises
in the sixth book of the
‘Æneid,’ Virgil was induced, by
unworthy motives, to depreciate unduly
the oratory of his countrymen
as compared with that of the
Greeks; and undoubtedly the inferiority
of Cicero to Demosthenes,
as a mere forensic pleader, is not so
clear or decided as to demand imperatively
from a Latin poet the
admission there unreservedly made
by the blunt and almost prosaic
expression, “Orabunt causas melius.”
Possibly, however, it was the
poet’s true object, by yielding the
most liberal concessions on other
points, to enforce the more strongly
his emphatic assertion, not merely
of the superiority of the Romans in
the arts of ordinary government,
but of their exclusive or peculiar
possession of the powers and faculties
fitted for attaining and preserving
a mighty empire. It is
certain that he has justly and vividly
described the great characteristic
of that people, and the chief source
and secret of their influence in the
history of the world, when he makes
the patriarch exclaim,—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c013'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span lang="la">Tu regere imperio populos, Romane, memento;</span></div>
      <div class='line'><span lang="la">Hæ tibi erunt artes.</span>”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>In aid of the high moral and intellectual
qualities which led to
their success as the conquerors and
rulers of the world, it is most material
to notice the structure and
genius of the language in which the
Roman people expressed and embodied
their political, legislative,
and judicial determinations. Every
national language is more or less
the reflex of the national mind;
and in no instance is this correspondence
more conspicuous than
in the case we are now considering.</p>

<p class='c012'>The Latin language is inferior to
the Greek in subtlety and refinement
of expression, and is therefore
far less adapted for metaphysical
speculation or poetical grace—for
analysing the nicer diversities of
thought, or distinguishing the minuter
shades of passion; but in
the enunciation of ethical truths
and of judicial maxims, it possesses
a clearness, force, and majesty, to
which no other form of speech can
approach. The great foundations
of law are good morals and good
sense, and these, however simple
and plain in their elements, are not
mean or common things. On the
contrary, they are susceptible of the
greatest dignity of expression when
embodied in words; and the language
in which their principles shall
be clothed may be of the utmost
importance in rendering them both
more portable in the memory and
more impressive on the heart. The
Roman jurists of the later period
of the Republic were not careless
students of the Greek philosophy;
but they used it in their juridical
writings with a wise discretion, and
in special reference to the object
of law, which is to lay down the
broad rules of human conduct and
personal rights in a form easily
understood, and capable of being
easily followed and faithfully observed
by the mass of mankind.</p>

<p class='c012'>The unequalled talent of the Roman
people for political organisation
is evinced by the manner in
which the imperial authority was
maintained, after the personal character
of the nominal sovereigns had
degenerated to the very lowest
point of profligacy and imbecility.
Our Teutonic ancestors had the
wisdom to appreciate and adopt
much of the machinery which they
thus found in operation; and the
municipal governments, as well as
the judicial constitutions of Europe,
are at this day influenced by the
models which were thus left. The
Popedom itself, on whose probable
endurance for the future it would
be hazardous to speculate, but whose
marvellous ascendancy in time past
is beyond dispute, was little else
than an adaptation of the imperial
organisation to ecclesiastical objects.
But the influence of the Roman law
on other nations was pre-eminently
seen in the wide adoption of its
general scheme, as well as of its
special rules and maxims. Even
the law of England—of all European
systems perhaps the least indebted
to the civil law—is deeply
imbued with the Roman spirit in
some of the most important departments
of jurisprudence; and where
the authority of the Roman law
cannot claim a submissive allegiance,
it is yet listened to as the best
manifestation of the <i><span lang="la">Recta Ratio</span></i>
that can anywhere be found. The
vast experience of human transactions,
and the endless complexities
of social relations, which the Roman
empire presented, afforded the best
materials for maturing a science
which was cultivated for noble objects
by minds of the highest order,
and embodied in propositions of
unrivalled power and precision.</p>

<p class='c012'>Independently of its influence on
individual municipal systems, the
Roman law deserves to be carefully
studied, as affording the easiest
transition, and the best introduction,
from classical and philosophical
pursuits to the technical rules
and scientific principles of general
jurisprudence. From Aristotle’s
Ethics, or from Cicero De Officiis,
the passage is plain and the ascent
gentle to the Institutes of Gaius
and Justinian; and these, again, are
the best preparation for the perusal
of Blackstone or Erskine. It ought,
indeed, to be considered as a great
privilege of the law-student that
his path lies for so great a portion
of its early way through a region
which has been rendered so pleasing
and attractive by the labours of the
eminent men whom we have now
named, and who combine so much
charm of style and correctness of
taste with so much practical wisdom
and useful philosophy.</p>

<p class='c012'>Hitherto, we think, there has been
a great, or rather an utter, want in
this country of any good Institute
of the civil law, that could safely
and efficiently guide the student in
his early labours, or assist him in
his more advanced progress. The
elegant and admirable summary
given by Gibbon in his History,
cannot, without much comment and
expansion, be made a book of instruction;
but we feel assured that this
want which we have noticed is supplied
by the work now before us.
Lord Mackenzie’s book, though
bearing the popular and modest
title of ‘Studies in Roman Law,’
is truly an Institute, or didactic
Exposition, of that system, where
its elements and leading principles
are laid down and illustrated as
fully as a student could require,
while a reference is made at every
step to texts and authorities, which
will enable him to extend and confirm
his views by a full examination
of original sources. The enunciation
of the legal principles is
everywhere given with great brevity,
but with remarkable clearness
and precision, and in a manner
equally pleasing and unpretending.
The comparison which is at the
same time presented between the
Roman system and the laws of
France, England, and Scotland, add
greatly to the attraction as well as
to the usefulness of the work.</p>

<p class='c012'>At the risk of appearing to resemble
the man in Hierocles who
carried a brick about with him as
a sample of his house, we shall
here offer a few extracts in illustration
of the character of the
work and its style of execution,
premising that the passages we
have selected have reference to
topics more of a popular than of a
scientific kind.</p>

<p class='c012'>The interest attaching at present
to questions of international law,
and to the rights of belligerents,
will recommend the passages on
those subjects which here follow:—</p>

<p class='c017'>“If all the states of Europe were to
concur in framing a general code of international
law, which should be binding
on them all, and form themselves
into a confederacy to enforce it, this
might be regarded as a positive law of
nations for Europe. But nothing of this
sort has ever been attempted. The
nearest approach to such international
legislation is the general regulations
introduced into treaties by the great
Powers of Europe, which are binding
on the contracting parties, but not on
the states that decline to accede to
them.</p>

<p class='c018'>“To settle disputes between nations
on the principles of justice, rather than
leave them to the blind arbitrament of
war, is the primary object of the European
law of nations. When war has
broken out, it regulates the rights and
duties of belligerents, and the conduct
of neutrals.</p>

<p class='c018'>“As the weak side of the law of nations
is the want of a supreme executive
power to enforce it, small states are exposed
to great disadvantages in disputes
with their more powerful neighbours.
But the modern political system of
Europe for the preservation of the balance
of power forms a strong barrier
against unjust aggression. When the
power of one great state can be balanced,
or kept in check, by that of another,
the independence of smaller states is in
some degree secured against both; for
neither of the great Powers will allow
its rival to add to its strength by the
conquest of the smaller states....</p>

<p class='c018'>“By the declaration of 16th April
1856, the Congress of Paris, held after
the Crimean war, adopted four principles
of international law. 1. Privateering
is and remains abolished. 2. The
neutral flag covers the enemy’s merchandise,
with the exception of contraband
of war. 3. Neutral merchandise,
with the exception of contraband of
war, is not liable to seizure under an
enemy’s flag. 4. Blockades, in order
to be binding, must be effective; that
is to say, must be maintained by a force
really sufficient to prevent approach to
an enemy’s coast. This declaration was
signed by the plenipotentiaries of the
seven Powers who attended the Congress,
and it was accepted by nearly all
the states of the world. But the United
States of America, Spain, and Mexico,
refused their assent, because they objected
to the abolition of privateering.
So far as these Powers are concerned,
therefore, privateering—that is, the employment
of private cruisers commissioned
by the state—still remains a
perfectly legitimate mode of warfare.
Britain and the other Powers who acceded
to the declaration, are bound to
discontinue the practice in hostilities
with each other. But if we should have
the misfortune to go to war with the
United States, we should not be bound
to abstain from privateering, unless the
United States should enter into a similar
and corresponding engagement with
us....</p>

<p class='c018'>“The freedom of commerce, to which
neutral states are entitled, does not
extend to contraband of war; but, according
to the principles laid down in
the declaration of Paris of April 1856,
it may now be said that ‘a ship at sea
is part of the soil of the country to
which it belongs,’ with the single exception
implied in the right of a belligerent
to search for contraband. What
constitutes contraband is not precisely
settled; the limits are not absolutely
the same for all Powers, and variations
occur in particular treaties; but, speaking
generally, belligerents have a right
to treat as contraband, and to capture,
all munitions of war and other articles
directly auxiliary to warlike purposes.
The neutral carrier engages in a contraband
trade when he conveys official despatches
from a person in the service of
the enemy to the enemy’s possessions; but
it has been decided that it is not illegal
for a neutral vessel to carry despatches
from the enemy to his Ambassador or his
Consul in a neutral country. The penalty
of carrying contraband is confiscation
of the illegal cargo, and sometimes
condemnation of the ship itself.</p>

<p class='c018'>“The affair of the Trent, West Indian
mail, gave rise to an important question
of maritime law deeply affecting the
rights of neutrals. In November 1861,
Captain Wilkes, of the American war-steamer
San Jacinto, after firing a roundshot
and a shell, boarded the English
mail-packet Trent, in Old Bahama
Channel, on its passage from Havannah
to Southampton, and carried off by
force Messrs Mason and Slidell, two
Commissioners from the Confederate
States, who were taken on board as passengers
bound for England. The Commissioners
were conveyed to America,
and committed to prison; but, after a
formal requisition by Britain, declaring
the capture to be illegal, they were surrendered
by the Federal Government.</p>

<p class='c018'>“The seizure of the Commissioners
was attempted to be justified by American
writers on two grounds: 1st, That
the Commissioners were contraband of
war, and that in carrying them the
Trent was liable to condemnation for
having committed a breach of neutrality;
2d, That, at all events, Captain
Wilkes was entitled to seize the Commissioners
either as enemies or rebels.
Both these propositions are plainly untenable....</p>

<p class='c018'>“In an able despatch by the French.
Government to the Cabinet of Washington,
M. Thouvenel declared that the
seizure of the Commissioners in a neutral
ship, trading from a neutral port to
a neutral port, was not only contrary to
the law of nations, but a direct contravention
of the principles which the
United States had up to that time invariably
avowed and acted upon. Russia,
Austria, and Prussia officially intimated
their concurrence in that opinion.</p>

<p class='c018'>“To argue the matter on the legal
points in opposition to the disinterested
and well-reasoned despatch of the French
Minister was a hopeless task. In an
elaborate state-paper, Mr Seward, the
American Secretary of State, professed
to rest the surrender of the Commissioners
upon a mere technicality—that
there had been no formal condemnation
of the Trent by a prize-court; but,
apart from this point of form, the seizure
was indefensible on the merits as a
flagrant violation of the law of nations;
and if the principle was not so frankly
acknowledged by Mr Seward as it ought
to have been, some allowance must be
made for a statesman who was trammelled
by the report of his colleague,
Mr Welles, the Secretary of the Navy,
approving of Captain Wilkes’s conduct,
and still more by the necessity of adopting
a policy directly contrary to the
whole current of popular opinion in the
Northern States.”</p>

<p class='c016'>The law of marriage and of divorce
is very fully treated by Lord
Mackenzie, and the peculiarities of
the different European systems are
well pointed out. The subject, however,
is too extensive and important
to admit of being incidentally
noticed; and we shall confine our
extracts here to a single passage describing
a Roman form of cohabitation
less honourable than matrimony,
and such as we trust is never
likely, to be legalised among ourselves:—</p>

<p class='c017'>“Under Augustus, concubinage—the
permanent cohabitation of an unmarried
man with an unmarried woman—was
authorised by law. The man who had
a lawful wife could not take a concubine;
neither was any man permitted to take
as a concubine the wife of another man,
or to have more than one concubine at
the same time. A breach of these regulations
was always condemned, and fell
under the head of <em>stuprum</em>. In later
times the concubine was called <em>amica</em>.
Between persons of unequal rank concubinage
was not uncommon; and sometimes
it was resorted to by widowers
who had already lawful children and did
not wish to contract another legal marriage,
as in the cases of Vespasian,
Antoninus Pius, and M. Aurelius.</p>

<p class='c018'>“As regards the father, the children
born in concubinage were not under his
power, and were not entitled to succeed
as children by a legal marriage; but
they had an acknowledged father, and
could demand support from him, besides
exercising other rights. As regards the
mother, their rights of succession were
as extensive as those of her lawful
children.</p>

<p class='c018'>“Under the Christian emperors concubinage
was not favoured; but it subsisted
as a legal institution in the time
of Justinian. At last Leo the Philosopher,
Emperor of the East, in a.d. 887,
abrogated the laws which permitted
concubinage, as being contrary to religion
and public decency. ‘Why,’ said
he, ‘should you prefer a muddy pool,
when you can drink at a purer fountain?’
The existence of this custom,
however, was long prolonged in the
West among the Franks, Lombards, and
Germans; and it is notorious that the
clergy for some time gave themselves up
to it without restraint.”</p>

<p class='c016'>The practice of adoption prevailing
in ancient Rome is well known,
but an account of it as it is retained
in the French law may be thought
curious:—</p>

<p class='c017'>“In France the usage of adoption was
lost after the first race of kings: it disappeared,
not only in the customary
provinces, but also in the provinces
governed by the written law. Re-established
in 1792, adoption is now sanctioned
by the Civil Code. Adoption,
however, is only permitted to persons of
either sex above the age of fifty, having
neither children nor other lawful descendants,
and being at least fifteen
years older than the individual adopted.
No married person can adopt without
the consent of the other spouse. The
privilege can only be exercised in favour
of one who has been an object of the
adopter’s care for at least six years during
minority, or of one who has saved
the life of the adopter in battle, from
fire, or from drowning. In the latter
case the only restriction respecting the
age of the parties is, that the adopter
shall be older than the adopted, and
shall have attained his majority. In no
case can adoption take place before the
majority of the person proposed to be
adopted.</p>

<p class='c018'>“The form of adoption consists of a
declaration of consent by the parties
before a justice of the peace for the place
where the adopter resides, after which
the transaction requires to be approved
of by the tribunal of first instance. After
adoption, the adopted person retains all
his rights as a member of his natural
family. He acquires no right of succession
to the property of any relation of
the adopter; but in regard to the property
of the adopter himself, he has
precisely the same rights as a child born
in marriage, even although there should
be other children born in marriage after
his adoption. The adopted takes the
name of the adopter in addition to his
own. No marriage can take place between
the adopter and the adopted, or
his descendants, and in certain other
cases specified.</p>

<p class='c018'>“The practice of adoption, which is
better suited to some states of society
than to others, still prevails among
Eastern nations. It has never been recognised
as a legal institution in England
or Scotland.”</p>

<p class='c016'>In ancient Rome, as at one time
in Modern Athens, there was a practice
of throwing or emptying things
out of window not without danger
or damage to the passer-by. This
was the law on that point:—</p>

<p class='c017'>“If anything was thrown from the
windows of a house near a public
thoroughfare, so as to injure any one by
its fall, the inhabitant or occupier was,
by the Roman law, bound to repair the
damage, though it might be done without
his knowledge by his family or servants,
or even by a stranger. This affords
an illustration of liability arising <i><span lang="la">quasi ex
delicto</span></i>.</p>

<p class='c018'>“In like manner, when damage was
done to any person by a slave or an animal,
the owner might in certain circumstances
be liable for the loss, though the
mischief was done without his knowledge
and against his will; but in such a case,
if no fault was directly imputable to the
owner, he was entitled to free himself
from all responsibility by abandoning
the offending slave or animal to the person
injured, which was called <i><span lang="la">noxæ dare</span></i>.
Though these noxal actions are not
classed by Justinian under the title of
obligations <i><span lang="la">quasi ex delicto</span></i>, yet, in principle,
they evidently fall within that
category.</p>

<p class='c018'>“All animals <i><span lang="la">feræ naturæ</span></i>, such as
lions, tigers, bears, and the like, must
be kept in a secure place to prevent them
from doing mischief; but the same vigilance
is not required in the case of animals
<i><span lang="la">mansuetæ naturæ</span></i>, the presumption
being, that no harm will arise in leaving
them at large, unless they are known to
be vicious or dangerous. So, where a
foxhound destroyed eighteen sheep belonging
to a farmer, it was decided by
the House of Lords in an appeal from
Scotland, that the owner of the dog was
not liable for the loss, there being no
evidence necessarily showing either
knowledge of the vicious propensities of
the dog or want of due care in keeping
him; and it was observed that, both
according to the English and the Scotch
law, ‘the <em>culpa</em> or negligence of the
owner is the foundation on which the
right of action against him rests.’”</p>

<p class='c016'>The subject of succession is treated
by Lord Mackenzie in a very
ample and satisfactory discussion.
In particular, the chapter on ‘Intestate
Succession in France, England,
and Scotland’ will be found
highly useful to the international
jurist. Lord Mackenzie has not
failed to observe here the striking
peculiarity of the Scotch law, by
which, with some qualifications
very recently introduced, intestate
succession, whether in real or personal
estate, goes entirely to the
agnates or paternal relations, and
not at all to cognates or those on
the mother’s side. This was the
law of the Twelve Tables, but it
was wholly altered in process
of time, and, under Justinian’s enactments,
paternal and maternal relations
were equally favoured. In
retaining the old distinction, the
law of Scotland seems now to stand
alone. The peculiarity may perhaps
be explained by the strong
feelings of family connection or
clanship which so long prevailed in
Scotland, and which bound together
the descendants of the same paternal
ancestor by so many common
interests. But it is certainly singular
that it should have continued to
the present day with such slender
modifications; and it is no small
anomaly that, while a man may
succeed to any of his maternal relations,
none of his maternal relations
can in general succeed to him,
even in property which he may
have inherited from the mother’s
side.</p>

<p class='c012'>The portion of the work devoted
to actions and procedure introduces
a clear light into a subject extremely
technical, and often made very obscure
by the mode in which it is
treated. We have only room for a
short extract as to the <i><span lang="la">remedium
miserabile</span></i> of Cessio Bonorum:—</p>

<p class='c017'>“The <i><span lang="la">cessio bonorum</span></i> has been adopted
in France as well as in Scotland. By
the ancient law of France, every debtor
who sought the benefit of <i><span lang="la">cessio</span></i> was obliged
by the sentence to wear in public
a green bonnet (<i><span lang="fr">bonnet vert</span></i>) furnished by
his creditors, under the penalty of being
imprisoned if he was found without it.
According to Pothier, this was intended
as a warning to all citizens to conduct
their affairs with prudence, so as to avoid
the risk of exposing themselves to such
ignominy; but he explains that in his
time, though the condition was inserted
in the sentence, it was seldom acted on
in practice, except at Bordeaux, where
it is said to have been rigidly enforced.</p>

<p class='c018'>“Formerly, a custom somewhat similar
prevailed in Scotland. Every debtor
who obtained the benefit of <i><span lang="la">cessio</span></i> was
appointed to wear ‘the dyvour’s habit,’
which was a coat or upper garment, half
yellow and half brown, with a cap of the
same colours. In modern times this
usage was discontinued. ‘According to
the state of public feeling, it would be
held a disgrace to the administration of
justice. It would shock the innocent;
it would render the guilty miserably
profligate.’ For a considerable time it
had become the practice in the judgment
to dispense with the dyvour’s habit, and
by the statute of Will. IV. it is utterly
abolished.”</p>

<p class='c016'>The work concludes with a very
agreeable chapter on the Roman
bar, from which we shall borrow a
couple of passages. A certain portion
of time was generally allowed
to advocates for their speeches, but
which varied before different judges
and at different periods.</p>

<p class='c017'>“A clepsydra was used in the tribunals
for measuring time by water, similar
in principle to the modern sand-glass.
When the judge consented to prolong
the period assigned for discussion, he
was said to give water—<i><span lang="la">dare aquam</span></i>.
‘As for myself,’ says Pliny, ‘whenever
I sit upon the bench (which is much
oftener than I appear at the bar), I always
give the advocates as much water
as they require; for I look upon it as
the height of presumption to pretend to
guess before a cause is heard what time
it will require, and to set limits to an
affair before one is acquainted with its
extent, especially as the first and most
sacred duty of a judge is patience, which,
indeed, is itself a very considerable part
of justice. But the advocate will say
many things that are useless. Granted.
Yet is it not better to hear too much
than not to hear enough? Besides, how
can you know that the things are useless
till you have heard them?’</p>

<p class='c018'>“Marcus Aurelius, we are told, was
in the habit of giving a large measure of
water to the advocates, and even permitting
them to speak as long as they
pleased.</p>

<p class='c018'>“By a constitution of Valentinian and
Valens, <span class='fss'>A.D.</span> 368, advocates were authorised
to speak as long as they wished,
upon condition that they should not
abuse this liberty in order to swell the
amount of their fees.”</p>

<p class='c016'>The history of Roman practice,
and, in particular, of the Cincian
Law on the subject of advocates’
fees, is ably condensed; and the law
of France and Scotland on the subject
is thus stated:—</p>

<p class='c017'>“In France, ancient laws and decisions,
as well as the opinions of the
doctors, allowed an action to advocates
to recover their fees; but according to
the later jurisprudence of the Parliament
of Paris, and the actual discipline of the
bar now in force, no advocate was or is
permitted to institute such an action.
In like manner barristers in England are
held to exercise a profession of an honorary
character, ‘and cannot, therefore,
maintain an action for remuneration for
what they have done, unless the employer
has expressly agreed to pay them.’
Upon this point the authorities in the
law of Scotland are not very precise.
Lord Bankton says, ‘Though action be
competent for such gratification, advocates
who regard their character abhor
such judicial claims, and keep in their
mind the notable saying of Ulpian upon
the like occasion, <i><span lang="la">Quœdam enim tametsi
honeste accipiantur, inhoneste tamen
petuntur</span></i>.’ But it is maintained by
others, whose opinion is entitled to great
weight, that no action lies for such fees—the
presumption, in the absence of
an express paction, being, that the advocate
has ‘either been satisfied, or
agreed to serve <em>gratis</em>.’”</p>

<p class='c016'>What the law of England is on
this most important question will
probably be definitively settled in
a <em><span lang="fr">cause <a id='t320'></a>célèbre</span></em> now depending. We
do not conceal our earnest hope
that the principles laid down in
the recent judgment of Chief-Justice
Erle will never be departed from.</p>

<p class='c012'>We close this notice by strongly
recommending Lord Mackenzie’s
book to the notice both of the student
and the practising jurist, to
each of whom we think it indispensable.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_321'>321</span>
  <h2 class='c002'>THE PERIPATETIC POLITICIAN—IN FLORENCE.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c016'>There is a mysterious power in
this nineteenth century before which
we all bow down and worship. Emperors
have grown powerful by its
support, and kings that know not
how to please it become the laughing-stock
of Europe. The highest
are not beyond its reach, the lowest
are not beneath its notice. The
Secretary of State spreads lengthy
despatches as peace-offerings at its
shrine, and the parish beadle is
careful not to put his hat on awry
lest he fall beneath its censure. The
idol has innumerable votaries; but
its high priests, the exponents of
its law, are the great authors and
statesmen of the day. And they
have a hard taskmaster to serve:
they must do the pleasure of their
lord before he has signified his
wishes—they must anticipate his
thoughts and be beforehand with
his commands; obsequiousness and
obedience alone will not suffice
them; they may sacrifice every
friend and every principle for his
sake, and nevertheless disgrace and
proscription await them, unless they
can know their master’s mind before
it is known to himself.</p>

<p class='c012'>Public Opinion is the unknown
master to whom all submit; listening
anxiously but vainly for his
commands, not knowing how or
where to study his humour. There
are Houses of Parliament, newspapers,
clubs, mechanic’s institutes,
pot-houses, prayer meetings—but
which of all these speak public
opinion? A weekly gathering of
articles from daily papers is not
public opinion. Opinion after dinner
is not public. It is evidently
necessary to apply some means
specially adapted to the place and
the time in order to discover the
mood of public opinion. In Syracuse,
Dionysius constructed an ear
for the purpose; unfortunately this
invention has been lost.</p>

<p class='c012'>In London, it is popularly said
that the only means to ascertain
public opinion is to take a seat in
the omnibus for the day and drive
continually up and down.</p>

<p class='c012'>In Florence, public opinion walks,—it
cannot afford to drive. The people
must be studied on foot. The
reader will therefore have already
understood that the title of this
paper was chosen from necessity
and not for the sake of the alliteration;
that in order to catch a
glimpse of Italian affairs as seen
through Tuscan spectacles—in order
to enter for the moment into the
jealousies, the grievances, and the
vanities of the provincial town of
Florence—there is no resource but
that of treating the question peripatetically—that
is, of walking the
streets.</p>

<p class='c012'>This course is the more natural
because in Florence the streets are—thanks
to the high price of
manure—remarkably clean. Accordingly
the people live in the
street; there they are to be met at
an early hour lounging along talking
or smoking, wrapped in cloaks
that take an extra twist with every
degree of cold. The street is their
assembly-room; it is frequented by
men of all sorts, as will be at once
seen by a moment’s scrutiny of the
stream of people creeping slowly
along over the pavement.</p>

<p class='c012'>There is the commercial dandy
who affects a felt hat with mandarin
button on the crown, a knobby
stick, and a would-be English shooting-jacket.
Behind him is the
sober professional man, in a French
great-coat which has wandered from
Paris, making room for newer
fashions. There, too, is the priest
of portly figure and wasted garments,
which show at once his
devotion to the inner man, and his
neglect of the outer world, walking
along with a blessing on his lips
and a green cotton umbrella under
his arm. By his side is the peasant
come to town for the day, cart-whip
in hand, and a long coarse cloak
trailing from his shoulders, embroidered
behind with flowers in
green silk. Every stitch will show
character in one way or another.
Italians wear green flowers where
Spaniards would have crosses in
black braid.</p>

<p class='c012'>And who is there among all this
crowd who would trouble his
thoughts about Victor Emmanuel
and his Ministers? Look at yonder
corner-wall where there is a sheet
of paper prominently pasted on a
black board: one solitary passenger
gives it a passing glance: that
is the telegram just received, announcing
the formation of the new
Ministry. But farther on there are
collected a little company of people,
whose animated and intent looks
show something really interesting
to be going on: it is that two or
three young men are practising in
chorus a snatch out of the last
street-ballad. Farther on the respective
merits of different ballet-dancers
are under discussion, and
some of the company are pronouncing
the stage-manager unfit for his
post. In the whole crowd there is
not one word, nor even a passing
thought, bestowed on the Government
which is going on at Turin.
So universal is the carelessness with
regard to the current affairs of the
day, that, as a general rule, if a man
be heard to speak about politics, or
in any way show himself conversant
with public affairs, it may at
once be concluded, more especially
if he speak in a disagreeable voice,
that that man is a Piedmontese.<a id='r4'></a><a href='#f4' class='c015'><sup>[4]</sup></a></p>

<p class='c012'>In vain do loud-voiced criers
hawk prints representing the murder
of the Gignoli family by the
Austrians in 1859; they offer them
at half-price, at quarter-price, but
find no purchasers. Even the photograph
of the bullet extracted from
Garibaldi’s foot has ceased to draw
people to the shop-window.</p>

<p class='c012'>Leaving the street for the moment,
and turning the corner of the
great Piazza, we find under the colonnade,
opposite the picture gallery,
an anxious crowd of people, eager
and pushing. That is the entrance
to the ‘Monte di Pieta,’ or municipal
pawnbroking establishment (for
private pawnbroking is illicit in
Florence). There is a long table
before the door, and on it are spread
silver watches, coral bracelets, and
other trinkets. Articles that have
lain unredeemed are being sold at
auction. The sale is well attended,
but purchasers will not compete.
There is much examination and
very little bidding. This same
scene has occurred regularly at
stated intervals for the last several
centuries.</p>

<p class='c012'>In the time of the Medicis, public
policy and private benevolence became
copartners in founding a
self-supporting pawnbroking shop
on a large scale, to be kept under
the supervision of Government.
To a people who, whenever they
begin to be pinched in circumstances,
try to economise but never
attempt to work, and exert themselves
rather to save than to make
money, it is no small object to have
a public pawnbroking establishment
where money is allowed at a
fixed scale. If a Florentine have a
bracelet too much, and bread too
little, he has but to give the bracelet
in pawn to the Government.
In the same way, if he be troubled
with a child too many, he proceeds
to the infant asylum, rings the bell,
and in the cradle which forthwith
opens, he deposits the child for the
Government to feed. Under the
Governments which have prevailed
in Tuscany for the last three hundred
years, this is precisely the
kind of political institution which
the Florentines have learnt to value
and appreciate.</p>

<p class='c012'>The proper supervision of the
pawnbroking shop, the maintenance
of the foundling asylums
and the hospitals (with which
Florence is, in proportion, better
provided than London), the grant
made to the opera—these and other
such questions are the matters of
government in which a Florentine
takes interest. To politics, in
an Englishman’s sense of the word,
they pay little or no attention. In
the election of representatives to
the Chambers at Turin the people
appear to take little or no part.
For instance: M. Peruzzi, the present
Minister for the Interior, is one
of the representatives of Florence.
On accepting office he was of
course obliged to appeal to his
constituents. The seat was contested.
On the day appointed for
the election I had occasion to ask
my way to the place where it was
being held: several respectable
citizens did not know that any
election was to take place whatever.
At last one man, better informed
than the rest, had heard
something about an election that
week, but did not know where the
elections were held. The election
proved invalid for want of the
legal complement of voters—namely,
one-half the whole number.
This is the general result of
elections in Tuscany on the first
trial. The second election is valid,
provided only the same number of
voters are present as attended the
first. This is fortunate, otherwise it
might occur that there would be a
lack of representatives from Tuscany
in the Parliament at Turin.</p>

<p class='c012'>The fact is, and it needs repetition,
the Florentines do not care
about politics. They have accepted
the revolution that was made for
them, and on the whole are well
contented with the change; at
least we ought in justice to ascribe
their general listlessness in
political affairs to contentment and
not to indifference.</p>

<p class='c012'>To inquire, however, more exactly
into the thoughts of those
amongst the Florentines who do
think about politics, it will be as
well to obtain at once rest and information
by sitting down for a
few moments in the tobacconist’s
shop, which may be called the centre
of the political world. To begin
with, the tobacconist is always
himself by profession a finished
politician, and he, moreover, enjoys
the confidence of several distinguished
friends, who keep him accurately
informed of every word that passes
in the Cabinets of Europe. The
general burden of his conversation,
which is a fair type of the talk at
shops and second-rate cafés, is as
follows:—The Pope-king is the
father of all mischief; and how
should it be otherwise? are not
priests and kings always the promoters
of every evil? and this man
is a combination of both. Then follows
a complaint against the Emperor
Napoleon and his creatures, the
Ministers at Turin, who, like true
Piedmontese, are in secret jealous
of the greatness of Italy, and treacherously
keep in pay reactionary
employés in lieu of filling the
offices, as they should, with enterprising
liberals. This sentiment
meets with loud and general applause,
and the company, waxing
warm on this topic, forthwith
launch into various prophecies as
to the immediate future. French
wars, Polish revolutions, Austrian
bankruptcies, are all considered,
and it is weighed what each might
do for Italy. What the Italians
themselves might do is a less frequent
theme.</p>

<p class='c012'>The Government, however, is
blamed for its neglect of Garibaldi,
which is only of a piece with its
conduct in leaving the active and
patriotic liberals of the country
without employment while they
are pensioning the reactionists—an
opinion which usually serves as
alpha and omega in the discussions
of the Florentine liberals on the
conduct of the Government.</p>

<p class='c012'>Having exhausted this topic, our
friend the politico-tobacconist resumes
his seat, taking his scaldino
(an earthenware vessel shaped like
a basket, and filled with hot ashes)
on his lap for the comfort of his
fingers, and proceeds to draw the
attention of visitors to various piles
of newspapers, the sale of which is
part of his trade. And as Florence
produces, for a country town, a very
respectable number of papers (some
dozen daily papers, not to count
two tri-weekly papers and other
periodicals), which, moreover, have
something of a national, or rather
of a provincial character, it will be
worth while to look over them before
leaving the tobacconist’s shop.
It is not every paper that will be
found: for instance, the three retrograde
papers will not be forthcoming.
These have so extremely
small a circulation that it is very
difficult to hunt them up. It is
only by favour, for instance, that a
copy of the ‘Contemporaneo’ can
be got, for, there being no public
demand, there is no sale; a limited
number of copies only are distributed
among subscribers.</p>

<p class='c012'>The newspapers to be found on
the counter are all liberal, but of
various shades of “colour,” as the
Italians name party opinions.</p>

<p class='c012'>The ‘Gazzetta del Popolo,’ which
is strictly constitutional, has still
the largest circulation of any (it
prints about 3000 copies daily),
though not half what it had. Its
decline has been owing partly to
general competition, partly to its
having embraced the defence of the
late Ratazzi Ministry, which unpopular
course is said to have cost
it in a few months nearly one-fourth
of its circulation; partly, perhaps,
to its sustaining the Piedmontese,
who have not of late been growing
in the favour of the Tuscans.</p>

<p class='c012'>The other papers are all more
“advanced,” that is, more opposed
to Government. Among these the
‘Censor’ ranks first. This is a
thoroughly Tuscan paper, and full of
quaint, provincial expressions. In
party politics it is red—a colour
which evidently finds most favour
in the eyes of the poorer citizens;
for recently it lost no less
than a fourth of its circulation by
raising its price from three to five
cents, that is, from about a farthing
and a half to a halfpenny. In its
columns, though not there only,
may be seen a catalogue of indictments
against the Piedmontese.
The Tuscans voted annexation to
Italy, it is said—not to Piedmont.
With Rome unity, without it none.
Does the unity of Italy mean the
domination of Turin? Are we to
accept from the most barbarous
portion of Italy laws which are
sent down to us written in a jargon
which cannot even be called
Italian? Tuscany is being fleeced
by men so greedy of every little
gain, that they supply all the royal
offices with paper made only in
Piedmont, in order that Piedmontese
paper-mills may reap the benefit.</p>

<p class='c012'>It speaks well for the Piedmontese
that, with so much desire to
find fault with them, these are the
most serious charges brought forward.</p>

<p class='c012'>In the Ratazzi Ministry the
papers lost the most fruitful theme
of declamation. The caricatures
against this Minister were endless,
representing him in every stage of
official existence, from the time
when he climbs the high ministerial
bench by the aid of a little finger
stretched out from Paris, to the
moment when he is shown hiding
his head under the folds of the
Emperor’s train.</p>

<p class='c012'>What is said against the Italian
Government, however, is not said
in praise of the Grand-duke’s rule.
On the contrary, the Opposition
papers—those at least that have
any circulation—all lean rather towards
the “party of action,” or
the extreme Liberals. The most
prominent paper of this description
in Florence is the ‘New Europe,’
which is republican, and makes no
mystery of its principles.</p>

<p class='c012'>Indeed, the press is so outspoken,
and is allowed such latitude, that it
is difficult to understand for what
purpose the Government maintains
a censorship. Nevertheless, such is
the case. It is not a very effective
one. Every paper is bound to be
laid before the Reggio procurator
twenty-four hours before it is published;
but that official is so little
able to peruse them all within the
specified time, that it has frequently
happened that a paper has been
sequestrated when it was a day old,
and had been already read and forgotten.
The right of sequestration,
however, has been used pretty freely.
The ‘Censor’ was sequestrated
more than sixty times in the course
of last year, and the ‘New Europe’
has been treated even more severely:
on one occasion it was sequestrated
for three days running.</p>

<p class='c012'>It is, however, high time to turn
from the ideal to the material world;
that is, to leave the tobacconist and
his newspapers, and dive into the
recesses of some very dirty and narrow
little lanes where the market is
being held, in order to see whether
the prices given and the business
done prove any decline in the prosperity
of Florence since the days of
the Grand-duke.</p>

<p class='c012'>Passing by the mountains of
vegetables piled up ornamentally
against the huge stones of the
Strozzi Palace, the reader must
pick his way carefully amidst the
accumulated masses of cabbage-stalks,
children, and other dirt
beneath, avoiding at the same time
the carcasses that hang out from
the butchers’ stalls on either side,
from poles projecting far into the
passage, and stooping every now
and then to avoid the festoons of
sausages which hang down from
above, garland-fashion, just low
enough to come in contact with the
nose of an average-sized mortal.
If by strictly observing the above
precautions he can make his way
despite all these obstacles, he will
on turning the next corner arrive
safely in front of an old woman
and a boy presiding over sundry
emblems of purgatory in the shape
of huge frying-pans fixed over
charcoal fires. The boy is ladling
a mass of tiny dainties out of
a seething black liquid, which have
an appearance as of whitebait being
fished out of the Thames. It is,
however, only an appearance; for
these are nothing more than small
cakes of chestnut-flour, by name
“sommomoli,” fried in oil, from
which they emerge copper-coloured,
sweet, nourishing, and tasteless,
costing half a centesimo, or the
twentieth part of a penny, a-piece.
The old woman is in person superintending
a still larger frying-pan,
in which are frizzling square cut
cakes, resembling Yorkshire pudding,
sometimes interspersed with
small slices of meat. These, by
name “ignochchi,” consist of nothing
less than Indian corn savoured
with hogs-lard.  A penny (ten
centesimi) will purchase ten of
them—a larger quantity than most
English, or any Italian stomach
would find it convenient to dispose
of at one sitting. A step farther
on slices will be offered to the
passer-by off a huge flat cake the
colour of gingerbread, also made of
chestnut-flour, and so satisfying
that it would puzzle even an Eton
lollypop-eater to consume a penny’s
worth. There are yet other
delicacies, one especially tempting,
a kind of black-pudding or rather
black wafer. It consists of a spoonful
of hog’s blood fried in oil, and
then turned out of the pan on to a
plate, seasoned with scraped cheese,
and devoured hot, at a halfpenny
a-piece.</p>

<p class='c012'>With street goodies at these
rates, whatever rise there may have
been in prices, it is impossible to
believe that they are of a nature to
press to any extent upon the people
at large. But take the staples of
the market; look into the baker’s
shop; weigh the loaves sold over
the counter, and the price of the
best wheaten bread will prove to
be fifteen centesimi (a penny halfpenny
a-pound)—not to mention the
sacks of maize-flour, of rice, and
of millet on the threshold.</p>

<p class='c012'>Nevertheless the Florentine market
shows a general rise in prices,
probably attributable in part to
the increased facility for sending
the products of Tuscany, this garden
of Italy, into the adjacent provinces,
in part, although indirectly,
to increased taxation, by which is
meant not merely Government taxation,
but the municipal rates, which
have considerably increased in Florence;
for the corporation of the town,
in common with many other municipalities
and commonalties, are
availing themselves of their greater
freedom of action under the new
Government to carry out numberless
improvements, which it was
difficult to execute before on account
of the lengthy representations
which were required to be
laid before the Grand-ducal Government.</p>

<p class='c012'>The increase of taxation consequently
is very considerable. The
“<span lang="it">tassa prediale</span>,” or property-tax,
for instance, has been increasing in
Florence since 1859 at the rate of
about one per cent every year, and
in some commonalties it is even
higher. There are men in Florence
who are now paying in taxes (local
rates and all included) exactly four
times what they paid in the Grand-duke’s
day. It is true that this increase
is not so oppressive as it
would appear, because the taxation
of Tuscany used to be extremely
light, being under fourteen shillings
per head compared with the population.
Still the cheerfulness with
which this increase has been borne
is a hopeful sign of the general
willingness of the people to support
the Italian Government. No impatience
even has been shown at
the rapidly augmenting taxes, and
this single fact deserves to be set
against a multitude of complaints
on smaller matters.</p>

<p class='c012'>Taxation, however, probably enters
for very little in the rise of
market prices. The reason of this
increase is to be sought in local
causes. For instance, there have
been several successive bad seasons
for olives. This year the yield is
better, and the price is falling.
Wine is still very high, owing to
the grape disease. Meat is nearly
double what it was some years
since, owing, it is said, chiefly to a
drought last summer.</p>

<p class='c012'>The rise in prices, however, has
been counterbalanced, so far as the
working population are concerned,
by a rise in wages, which has been
on the average from a Tuscan lire
to a Sardinian franc, or about 20
per cent.</p>

<p class='c012'>On the whole, comparing the
rise in prices with that in wages,
the real pay of the labourer would
seem to have slightly improved.
So far, therefore, as the people’s
stomachs are concerned, the comparison
is not unfavourable to the
new Government. To persons residing
at Florence on fixed incomes,
however, the increase in both instances
is unfavourable, and they
not unnaturally regard that which
is inconvenient to themselves as
ruinous to the country.</p>

<p class='c012'>The loss of the custom of the
Court and its train, upon which so
much stress has been laid, so far
from having affected Tuscany, has
not even really affected Florence.
The amount taken on account of
the “octroi” at the gates of Florence
shows the consumption to be
on the increase.</p>

<p class='c012'>We may therefore leave the
market with the conviction that
there is no material pressure at
work to cause discontent. Some
tradesmen really have suffered from
the absence of the Court, as the
jewellers and milliners for instance;
but trade generally has not felt the
difference.</p>

<p class='c012'>Continuing, however, our walk
in search of public opinion, we
come, in a street not far distant, to
a real cause of complaint; and in
Tuscany, where there is a cause,
there will be no want of complaint.
There are a couple of soldiers standing
sentry before a large door, and
all around knots of countrymen
talking together in anxious expectation,
or not talking, but silently
taking leave.</p>

<p class='c012'>The conscription is a grievance.
It is the only act of the new Government
which is generally felt
to be a hardship, and sometimes
murmured against as an injustice.
Rather more than one in every five
of the youths who this year attain
the age of twenty-one are being
drawn for the army. This is the
proportion of those taken from
their homes and sent to the depots
of different regiments, for all are
liable to military service under one
category or another. Being inscribed
and left at home, however,
is no great hardship: it is the separation
from home which is dreaded,
and therefore the numbers of the
first category in the conscription
which have alone to be considered.
This heavy conscription is something
new to the Tuscans. In the
palmy days of Grand-ducal Government,
before 1848, exemption from
military service could be obtained
for something less than £4 English;
after the Austrian occupation, the
conscription having grown severer,
the cost of exemption was about
doubled; but now it amounts to
a sum which none but the wealthy
can possibly pay.</p>

<p class='c012'>The young conscripts, however,
become rapidly imbued with the
professional pride of their older
comrades; and it often happens
that lads, who have parted from
their home in tears, astonish their
quiet parents a few weeks after
with letters full of enthusiasm for
the Italian army. Enthusiasm on
any subject is a rare virtue in Tuscany;
and if a military life for six
years could infuse into the rising
generation some energy and some
habits of discipline, the army would
prove a more important means of
education than all the new schools
which are to be introduced.</p>

<p class='c012'>But how is it that throughout
this perambulation of the town of
Florence we have not come across
a single sign of that touching affection
for the late Grand-duke which
has been so vividly and so often
described in England?</p>

<p class='c012'>The truth is, that although there
is a good deal of discontent with
the present Government, there is
no regret for the last.</p>

<p class='c012'>Of all the weak sentiments which
exist in Tuscan breasts, loyalty towards
the late Grand-duke is certainly
the very weakest.</p>

<p class='c012'>In order, however, that the reader
may catch a glimpse of the “Codini”
(or “party of the tail,” as the following
of the late Grand-duke are
called) before they are all numbered
among the antiquities of Italy,
it will be advisable to take one
turn on the banks of the Arno in
the “Cascine,” the fashionable
walk, or “the world,” of the Florentines.</p>

<p class='c012'>It is sunset, and the evening chill
is making itself felt—in fact, to lay
aside all romance about the Italian
climate, it is very cold. The upper
five hundred come out at dew-fall,
when everybody else goes in, apparently
for no better reason than
because everybody else does go in.
There are Russians driving in handsome
droschkes, and Americans in
livery-stable barouches of an unwieldy
magnificence. But our business
is not with these; the native
gentility of Florence is just arriving—ladies
in closely-shut broughams,
and young gentlemen, some in open
carriages, half dog-carts half phaetons;
others, less fortunate, in open
fiacres.</p>

<p class='c012'>They drive down to the end of
the Cascine, where old beggar women
attend upon them with “scaldine”
to warm their fingers over.
There men and women alight and
promenade at a foot’s pace, despite
the cold, after which they all drive
home again.</p>

<p class='c012'>And what can they have been
about all day before they came to
the Cascine? The masters and mistresses
have been sitting in their
respective rooms, drawing such
warmth as they might from a
stove most economically furnished
with wood; the servants have
been sitting in the antechamber,
holding their four extremities over
the hot ashes in the “brasero,” a
metal vessel something like an
English stewpan on a large scale;
for the Italian palaces are cold:
the architect may have done well,
but the mason and the carpenter
have been negligent. The walls are
joined at any angle except a right
one; the windows do not close;
the floors are diversified by sundry
undulations, so that a space is left
beneath the door, through which
light zephyrs play over the ill-carpeted
floor. Perhaps the lady
of the house has been sitting in
state to receive her friends; for
every Florentine lady is solemnly
announced as “at home” to all her
friends one day in the week, so as
to keep them out of the house all
the other six.</p>

<p class='c012'>This is the married life in the
palace. The life of the young men,
the bachelor life of Florence, is not
a bit more active. In a word, the
life of a Florentine in easy circumstances
is a prolonged lounge. It
is not that they loiter away their
time for a few weeks, or for a few
months—for “a season,” in short—that
is done all the world over;
but the Florentines do nothing but
loiter. The most active portion of
their lives is that now before us,—the
life during the carnival. The
carnival over, the rest of the year
is spent in recruiting finances and
health for the next winter.</p>

<p class='c012'>Lest the reader should treat this
description as exaggerated or unduly
severe, it will be best to let
the Florentines themselves describe
their own manner of living, and
give, word for word, the rules laid
down in a Florentine paper<a id='r5'></a><a href='#f5' class='c015'><sup>[5]</sup></a> for
any young gentleman who wishes
to live in holiness, peace, and happiness
(<em>sic</em>).</p>

<p class='c012'>“On waking in the morning,
take a cup of coffee in bed; and if
you have a servant to pour it out,
mind that she be a young and
pretty one.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Then light a cigar (but not of
native tobacco; it is too bad), or,
better still, take a whiff of a pipe.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Clear your ideas by smoking,
and, little by little, have yourself
dressed by the person who undressed
you the night before.</p>

<p class='c012'>“After writing a meaningless
letter, or reading a chapter out of
a novel, go out, weather permitting.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Should you meet a priest, a
hunchback, or a white horse, return
straightway, or a misfortune may
befall you.</p>

<p class='c012'>“After a short turn, get back to
breakfast, and, this over, bid the
driver put to and whip up for the
Cascine.</p>

<p class='c012'>“There go from one carriage
to the other, and talk scandal to
each lady against all the rest: this
to kill time till dinner.</p>

<p class='c012'>“Eat enough, and drink more;
and should some wretch come to
trouble your digestion by begging
his bread, tell him a man should
work.</p>

<p class='c012'>“At night, go to the theatre, the
club, or into society. At the theatre,
should there be a new piece, hiss it;
this will give you the reputation of
a connoisseur; should there be an
opera, try to learn an air that you
may sing at the next party; should
there be a ballet, endeavour to play
Mæcenas to some dancer, according
to the custom of the century.</p>

<p class='c012'>“One day over, begin the next
in the same way, and so on to the
end.”</p>

<p class='c012'>This, in sober earnest, is the life
of a Florentine noble; except that,
if rich enough, he spends all his
superfluous energy and wealth in
occasional visits to Paris. If unusually
clever, he will become a
good singer, or a judge of art—not
of pictures and statues, probably,
but of antique pots and pans.
Otherwise he has no pursuit whatever,
and his sole occupation is to
persuade himself that he is an
Adonis, and his friends that he is
as fortunate as Endymion.</p>

<p class='c012'>Such is the stuff which the Codini
nobles are made of, and so let them
drive home in peace. These are not
the manner of men to make counter
revolutions. Brought up as boys
by a priest, within the four walls
of a palace, they have never had an
opportunity of gaining any experience
of life beyond that afforded
by the café, the theatre, and the
Court, and they feel alarmed and
annoyed to find growing up around
them a state of things in which men
will have to rank according as they
can make themselves honoured by
the people, and not according to
the smile they may catch at Court.
To this must be added, with some,
a genuine personal feeling towards
the late Grand-duke, but these are
very few; they are limited for the
most part to the courtiers, or “the
antechamber” of the Court that has
passed away, and even with them
it is no more than a feeling of patronising
friendship—nothing resembling
the loyalty of an Englishman
towards his sovereign. But
most of the regret expressed for
the late Grand-duke is nothing
more than ill-disguised disappointment
at being no longer able to cut
a figure at Court and rub shoulders
with royalty; and this is a form
of politics not altogether unknown
among our good countrymen at
Florence.</p>

<p class='c012'>It is cruel of reactionary writers
and orators in other countries to
draw down ridicule on the harmless
and peaceful gentlemen who form
the small band of Codini at Florence,
by endeavouring to magnify
them into a counter-revolutionary
party.</p>

<p class='c012'>The Codini at Florence would
wish for the Austrians: they have
a faint and lingering hope of a
Parisian Court at Florence, under
Prince Napoleon; but they do not
even pretend that they would move
a finger in any cause.</p>

<p class='c012'>There are men in Tuscany, and
even gentlemen, who will work and
form themselves, let us hope, on
the stamp of Baron Ricasoli; but
these are not to be found among
the clique of the Codini at Florence.</p>

<p class='c012'>The intelligence and energy of
the country is for Italy, and nearly
all the great names of Florence—the
names of republican celebrity,
to their honour be it said—are to
be found in the ranks of the national
party. It is true their name
is at present all that they can give
to forward the cause.</p>

<p class='c012'>Let us hope, however, that the
ideas of ambition, and the wider
field for competition which the new
system offers, may awake in the
children now growing up in Florence
an energy which has been unknown
to their fathers for many
and many a generation. Then, perhaps,
a walk in the streets of Florence
thirty years hence will no
longer show us electors who will
not step a hundred yards out of the
way in order to attend an election.
The Florentines may, at their own
pleasure, by taking a part in their
own government and the government
of Italy, virtually terminate
that Piedmontese tutelage against
which they fret, and without which
they are not yet fit to carry out a
constitutional system.</p>

<p class='c017'><span class='sc'>Florence</span>, <em>Feb. 2, 1863</em>.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_330'>330</span>
  <h2 class='c002'>THE FRANK IN SCOTLAND.<a id='r6'></a><a href='#f6' class='c015'><sup>[6]</sup></a></h2>
</div>

<p class='c016'>For the benefit of the reader
who may not have time and inclination
to work his way through two
thick volumes of research—for the
benefit also of him who might be
inclined to that adventurous task,
but desires beforehand to have
some notion of the tenor and character
of the work before he invests
in it his time and patience—we
gave, in our November Number, a
sketch of what we thought the prominent
features of the doings of
our countrymen in France, during
the long period when Scotland was
alienated from England. We now
propose to take up the other side
of the reciprocity. The two sketches
will necessarily be distinct in character,
as the material facts to which
they refer were distinct. France
was, as we have seen, the centre
round which what remained of the
civilisation of the old world lingered;
and, along with much
wretchedness among the common
people, she was of all the states of
Europe that which contained the
largest abundance of the raw material
of wealth, and consequently of
the elements by which men of enterprise
could raise themselves to
affluence and station. Scotland was
on the outskirts of those lands in
which the new civilisation of the
northern nations was slowly and
coldly ripening to a still distant
maturity. These two countries, so
unlike, were knit into a close alliance,
by a common danger inducing
them to adopt a common policy.
But, being fundamentally unlike,
their close intercourse naturally
tended, by close contact and comparison,
to bring out the specialties
of their dissimilarity.</p>

<p class='c012'>And in nothing is this dissimilarity
more conspicuous than when
we look at the method and the
object of the Scots’ sojourn in
France, and compare them with
those which characterised the few
Frenchmen who came to us. The
ruling feature in the former side of
the reciprocity is, the profuseness
with which our countrymen domesticated
themselves in the land
of their ancient allies, and infused
new blood into theirs. There was
little to attract the Frenchman to
pitch his tent with us. As soon
almost would he have thought of
seeking his fortunes in Lapland or
Iceland. Here, therefore, we have
less to do with the fortunes of individual
adventurers than with the
national policy of the French towards
Scotland, and those who
casually came among us for the
purpose of giving it effect. Our
country had in fact been in a great
measure cleared of French names
before our intercourse with France
began, and they never reappeared,
except casually and in connection
with some special political movement.
The Norman French who
had migrated from England over
the border having, as we have seen,
rendered themselves offensive by
helping their own Norman King to
enslave Scotland, were driven away
in considerable numbers at the conclusion
of the war of independence;
and afterwards the French, though
they kept up the policy of a close
alliance with us, and gave a hearty
reception to our own adventurers,
found nothing to tempt them to
reciprocate hospitalities. Hence
the present sketch is not likely to
afford any such genial history of
national hospitality and successful
adventure as the paper devoted to
the conduct of our countrymen in
France.</p>

<p class='c012'>The policy of our alliance against
England as the common enemy had
become a thing of pretty old standing;
many a Scot had sought his
fortune in France; and names familiar
to us now on shop-signs and
in street-directories had been found
among the dead at Poictiers, before
we have authentic account of any
Frenchmen having ventured across
the sea to visit the sterile territory
of their allies. Froissart makes a
story out of the failure of the first
attempt to send a French ambassador
here. The person selected
for the duty was the Lord of Bournazel
or Bournaseau, whose genealogy
is disentangled by M. Michel
in a learned note. He was accredited
by Charles V. in the year 1379,
and was commanded to keep such
state as might become the representative
of his august master.
Bournazel set off to embark at
Sluys, and then had to wait fifteen
days for a favourable wind. The
ambassador thought there was no
better way of beguiling the time
than a recitation among the Plat
Dutch of the splendours which he
was bound in the way of public
duty to exhibit in the sphere of his
mission. Accordingly, “during this
time he lived magnificently; and
gold and silver plate were in such
profusion in his apartments as if
he had been a prince. He had also
music to announce his dinner, and
caused to be carried before him a
sword in a scabbard richly blazoned
with his arms in gold and silver.
His servants paid well for everything.
Many of the townspeople
were much astonished at the great
state this knight lived in at home,
which he also maintained when he
went abroad.” This premature
display of his diplomatic glories
brought him into a difficulty highly
characteristic of one of the political
specialties of France at that period.
It was the time when the nobles of
the blood-royal were arrogating to
themselves alone certain prerogatives
and ceremonials distinguishing
them from the rest of the territorial
aristocracy, however high
these might be. The Duke of
Bretagne and the Count of Flanders,
who were near at hand, took
umbrage at the grand doings of
Bournazel, and sent for him through
the bailiff of Sluys. That officer,
after the manner of executive functionaries
who find themselves sufficiently
backed, made his mission
as offensive as possible, and, tapping
Bournazel on the shoulder, intimated
that he was wanted. The
great men had intended only to
rebuke him for playing a part
above his commission, but the indiscretion
of their messenger gave
Bournazel a hold which he kept
and used sagaciously. When he
found the princes who had sent for
him lounging at a window looking
into the gardens, he fell on his
knees and acknowledged himself
the prisoner of the Count of Flanders.
To take prisoner an ambassador,
and the ambassador of a
crowned king, the feudal lord of
the captor, was one of the heaviest
of offences, both against the law of
nations and the spirit of chivalry.
The Earl was not the less enraged
that he felt himself caught; and
after retorting with, “How, rascal,
do you dare to call yourself my
prisoner when I have only sent to
speak with you?” he composed himself
to the delivery of the rebuke
he had been preparing in this
fashion: “It is by such talkers
and jesters of the Parliament of
Paris and of the king’s chamber
as you, that the kingdom is governed;
and you manage the king
as you please, to do good or
evil according to your wills: there
is not a prince of the blood, however
great he may be, if he incur
your hatred, who will be listened to;
but such fellows shall yet be hanged
until the gibbets be full of them.”
Bournazel carried this pleasant announcement
and the whole transaction
to the throne, and the king
took his part, saying to those around,
“He has kept his ground well: I
would not for twenty thousand
francs it had not so happened.”
The embassy to Scotland was thus
for the time frustrated. It was
said that there were English cruisers
at hand to intercept the ambassador,
and that he himself had no great
heart for a sojourn in the wild unknown
northern land. Possibly the
fifteen days’ lording it at Sluys may
have broken in rather inconveniently
on his outfit; but the most likely
cause of the defeat of the first
French embassy to our shores was,
the necessity felt by Bournazel to
right himself at once at court, and
turn the flank of his formidable
enemies; and Froissart says, the Earl
of Flanders lay under the royal
displeasure for having, in his vain
vaunting, defeated so important a
project as the mission to the Scots.</p>

<p class='c012'>A few years afterwards our country
received a visit, less august, it
is true, than the intended embassy,
but far more interesting. In 1384, negotiations
were exchanged near the
town of Boulogne for a permanent
peace between England and France.
The French demanded concessions
of territory which could not be
yielded, and a permanent peace,
founded on a final settlement of
pending claims, was impossible. A
truce even was at that time, however,
a very important conclusion
to conflict; it sometimes lasted for
years, being in reality a peace under
protest that each party reserved certain
claims to be kept in view when
war should again break out. Such
a truce was adjusted between England
on the one side and France on
the other—conditional on the accession
of her allies Spain and Scotland.
France kept faith magnanimously,
in ever refusing to negotiate
a separate peace or truce for herself;
but, as the way is with the
more powerful of two partners, she
was apt to take for granted that
Scotland would go with her, and
that the affair was virtually finished
by her own accession to terms.</p>

<p class='c012'>It happened that in this instance
the Duke of Burgundy took in hand
to deal with Scotland. He had,
however, just at that moment, a
rather important piece of business,
deeply interesting to himself, on
hand. By the death of the Earl of
Flanders he succeeded to that fair
domain—an event which vastly influenced
the subsequent fate of
Europe. So busy was he in adjusting
the affairs of his succession, that
it was said he entirely overlooked
the small matter of the notification
of the truce to Scotland. Meanwhile,
there was a body of men-at-arms
in the French service at Sluys
thrown out of employment by the
truce with England, and, like other
workmen in a like position, desirous
of a job. They knew that the truce
had not yet penetrated to Scotland,
and thought a journey thither, long
and dangerous as it was, might be
a promising speculation. There
were about thirty of them, and
Froissart gives a head-roll of those
whose names he remembered, beginning
with Sir Geoffry de Charny,
Sir John de Plaissy, Sir Hugh de
Boulon, and so on. They dared not
attempt, in face of the English warships,
to land at a southern harbour,
but reached the small seaport called
by Froissart Monstres, and not unaptly
supposed by certain sage
commentators to be Montrose, since
they rode on to Dundee and thence
to Perth. They were received with
a deal of rough hospitality, and
much commended for the knightly
spirit that induced them to cross
the wide ocean to try their lances
against the common enemy of England.
Two of them were selected
to pass onto Edinburgh, and explain
their purpose at the court of Holyrood.
Here they met two of their
countrymen on a mission which
boded no good to their enterprise.
These were ambassadors from
France, come at last to notify the
truce. It was at once accepted by
the peaceable King Robert, but the
Scots lords around him were grieved
in heart at the prospect that these fine
fellows should come so far and return
without having any sport of
that highly flavoured kind which the
border wars afforded. The truce they
held had been adjusted not by Scotland
but by France; and here, as if to
contradict its sanction, were Frenchmen
themselves offering to treat it
as naught. There was, however, a
far stronger reason for overlooking
it. Just before it was completed,
but when it was known to be inevitable,
the Earls of Northumberland
and Nottingham suddenly and
secretly drew together two thousand
men-at-arms and six thousand bowmen,
with which they broke into
Scotland, and swept the country as
far as Edinburgh with more than
the usual ferocity of a border raid;
for they made it to the Scots as if
the devil had come among them,
having great wrath, for he knew
that his time was short. It was
said, even, that the French ambassadors
sent to Scotland to announce
the truce had been detained in
London to allow time for this raid
coming off effectively. “To say the
truth,” says Froissart, mildly censorious,
“the lords of England who
had been at the conference at
Bolinghen, had not acted very honourably
when they had consented
to order their men to march to
Scotland and burn the country,
knowing that a truce would speedily
be concluded: and the best excuse
they could make was, that it was
the French and not they who were
to signify such truce to the Scots.”
Smarting from this inroad, the Scots
lords, and especially the Douglases
and others on the border, were in no
humour to coincide with their peaceful
King. They desired to talk
the matter over with the representatives
of the adventurers in
some quiet place; and, for reasons
which were doubtless sufficient to
themselves, they selected for this
purpose the church of St Giles in
Edinburgh. The conference was
highly satisfactory to the adventurers,
who spurred back to Perth
to impart the secret intelligence
that though the king had accepted
the truce, the lords were no party
to it, but would immediately prepare
an expedition to avenge Nottingham
and Northumberland’s
raid. This was joyful intelligence,
though in its character rather surprising
to followers of the French
court. A force was rapidly collected,
and in a very few days the adventurers
were called to join it in
the Douglases’ lands.</p>

<p class='c012'>So far Froissart. This affair
is not, at least to our knowledge,
mentioned in detail by any of
our own annalists writing before
the publication of his Chronicles.
Everything, however, is there
set forth so minutely, and with
so distinct and accurate a reference
to actual conditions in all
the details, that few things in history
can be less open to doubt.
Here, however, we come to a statement
inviting question, when he says
that the force collected so suddenly
by the Scots lords contained fifteen
thousand mounted men; nor can
we be quite reconciled to the statement
though their steeds were the
small mountain horses called hackneys.
The force, however, was
sufficient for its work. It found
the English border trusting to the
truce, and as little prepared for invasion
as Nottingham and Northumberland
had found Scotland.
The first object was the land of
the Percies, which the Scots, in
the laconic language of the chronicler,
“pillaged and burnt.” And so
they went onwards; and where
peasants had been peacefully tilling
the land or tending their cattle
amid the comforts of rude industry,
there the desolating host passed,
the crops were trampled down—their
owners left dead in the ashes
of their smoking huts—and a few
widows and children, fleeing for
safety and food, was all of animal
life left upon the scene. The part,
indeed, taken in it by his countrymen
was exactly after Froissart’s
own heart, since they were not
carrying out any of the political
movements of the day, nor were
they even actuated by an ambition
of conquest, but were led by the
sheer fun of the thing and the
knightly spirit of adventure to
partake in this wild raid. To the
Scots it was a substantial affair, for
they came back heavy-handed, with
droves and flocks driven before
them—possibly some of them recovered
their own.</p>

<p class='c012'>The king had nothing to say in
his vindication touching this little
affair, save that it had occurred
without his permission, or even
knowledge. The Scots lords were
not the only persons who broke
that truce. It included the Duke
of Burgundy and his enemies, the
Low Country towns; yet his feudatory,
the Lord Destournay, taking
advantage of the defenceless condition
of Oudenarde during peace,
took it by a clever stratagem. The
Duke of Burgundy, when appealed
to, advised Destournay to abandon
his capture; but Destournay was
wilful: he had conquered the city,
and the city was his—so there was
no help for it, since the communities
were not strong enough to enforce
their rights, and Burgundy
would only demand them on paper.
What occasioned the raid of the
Scots and French to be passed over
was, however, that the Duke of
Lancaster, John of Gaunt, who had
the chief authority over the English
councils, as well as the command
over the available force, was taken
up with his own schemes on the
crown of Castile, and not inclined
to find work for the military force
of the country elsewhere. The truce,
therefore, was cordially ratified;
bygones were counted bygones;
and the French adventurers bade a
kindly farewell to their brethren-in-arms,
and crossed the seas homewards.</p>

<p class='c012'>Driven from their course, and
landing at the Brille, they narrowly
escaped hanging at the hands of the
boorish cultivators of the swamp;
and after adventures which would
make good raw materials for several
novels, they reached Paris.</p>

<p class='c012'>There they explained to their
own court how they found that the
great enemy of France had, at the
opposite extremity of his dominions,
a nest of fighting fiends, who
wanted only their help in munitions
of war to enable them to rush on
the vital parts of his dominions with
all the fell ferocity of men falling
on their bitterest feudal enemy.
Thus could France, having under
consideration the cost and peril of
gallying an invading army across
the Straits, by money and management,
do far more damage to the
enemy than any French invading
expedition was likely to accomplish.</p>

<p class='c012'>In an hour which did not prove
propitious to France, a resolution
was adopted to invade England at
both ends. Even before the truce
was at an end, the forges of Henault
and Picardy were hard at work
making battle-axes; and all along
the coast, from Harfleur to Sluys,
there was busy baking of biscuits
and purveyance of provender. Early
in spring an expedition of a thousand
men-at-arms, with their followers,
put to sea under John
of Vienne, the Admiral of France,
and arrived at Leith, making a
voyage which must have been signally
prosperous, if we may judge
by the insignificance of the chief
casualty on record concerning it.
In those days, as in the present, it
appears that adventurous young
gentlemen on shipboard were apt
to attempt feats for which their
land training did not adapt them—in
nautical phrase, “to swing on all
top ropes.” A hopeful youth chose
to perform such a feat in his armour,
and with the most natural of all
results. “The knight was young
and active, and, to show his agility,
he mounted aloft by the ropes of
his ship, completely armed; but his
feet slipping he fell into the sea,
and the weight of his armour, which
sank him instantly, deprived him
of any assistance, for the ship was
soon at a distance from the place
where he had fallen.”</p>

<p class='c012'>The expedition soon found itself
to be a mistake. In fact, to send
fighting men to Scotland was just
to supply the country with that
commodity in which it superabounded.
The great problem was
how to find food for the stalwart
sons of the soil, and arms to put in
their hands when fighting was necessary.
A percentage of the cost and
labour of the expedition, spent in
sending money or munitions of war,
would have done better service.
The scene before the adventurers
was in lamentable contrast to all
that custom had made familiar to
them. There were none of the
comfortable chateaux, the abundant
markets, the carpets, down beds,
and rich hangings which gladdened
their expeditions to the Low
Countries, whether they went as
friends or foes. Nor was the same
place for <em>them</em> in Scotland, which
the Scots so readily found in France,
where a docile submissive peasantry
only wanted vigorous and adventurous
masters. “The lords and
their men,” says Froissart, “lodged
themselves as well as they could in
Edinburgh, and those who could
not lodge there were quartered in
the different villages thereabout.
Edinburgh, notwithstanding that it
is the residence of the king, and is
the Paris of Scotland, is not such a
town as Tournay and Valenciennes,
for there are not in the whole
town four thousand houses. Several
of the French lords were therefore
obliged to take up their lodgings in
the neighbouring villages, and at
Dunfermline, Kelso, Dunbar, Dalkeith,
and in other towns.” When
they had exhausted the provender
brought with them, these children
of luxury had to endure the miseries
of sordid living, and even the
pinch of hunger. They tried to
console themselves with the reflection
that they had, at all events, an
opportunity of experiencing a phase
of life which their parents had endeavoured
theoretically to impress
upon them, in precepts to be thankful
to the Deity for the good things
which they enjoyed, but which
might not always be theirs in a
transitory world. They had been
warned by the first little band of
adventurers that Scotland was not
rich; yet the intense poverty of the
country whence so many daring
adventurers had gone over to ruffle
it with the flower of European
chivalry, astonished and appalled
them. Of the extreme and special
nature of the poverty of Scotland,
the great war against the English invaders
was the cause. It has been
estimated, indeed, by those devoted
to such questions, that Scotland did
not recover fully from the ruin
caused by that conflict until the
Union made her secure against her
ambitious neighbour. It was the
crisis referred to in that pathetic
ditty, the earliest specimen of our
lyrical poetry, when</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c013'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Away was sonse of ale and bread,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Of wine and wax, of gaming and glee;</div>
      <div class='line'>Our gold was changed into lead;</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Cryst borne into virginity.</div>
      <div class='line'>Succour poor Scotland and remede,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>That stad is in perplexity.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>It is not sufficiently known how
much wealth and prosperity existed
in Scotland before King Edward
trod its soil. Berwick, the chief
commercial port, had commerce with
half the world, and bade fair to
rival Ghent, Rotterdam, and the
other great mercantile cities of the
Low Country. Antiquarians have
lately pointed to a sad and significant
testimony to the change of
times. Of the ecclesiastical remains
of Scotland, the finest are either
in the Norman, or the early English
which preceded the Edwards.
These are the buildings of a noted
and munificent people; they rival
the corresponding establishments in
England, and are in the same style
as the work of nations having
common interests and sympathies—indeed
the same architects seem
to have worked in both countries.
At the time when the Gothic architecture
of England merged into the
type called the Second Pointed, there
ceased to be corresponding specimens
in Scotland. A long period,
indeed, elapses which has handed
down to us no vestiges of church
architecture in Scotland, or only a
few too trifling to possess any distinctive
character. When works
of Gothic art begin again to arise
with the reviving wealth of the
people, they are no longer of the
English type, but follow that flamboyant
style which had been adopted
by the ecclesiastical builders of
the country with which Scotland had
most concern—her steady patron
and protector, France.<a id='r7'></a><a href='#f7' class='c015'><sup>[7]</sup></a></p>

<p class='c012'>The poverty of the Scots proceeded
from a cause of which they
need not have been ashamed; yet,
with the reserve and pride ever
peculiar to them, they hated that
it should be seen by their allies,
and when these showed any indications
of contempt or derision, the
natives were stung to madness.
Froissart renders very picturesquely
the common talk about the strangers,
thus:—“What devil has
brought them here? or, who has
sent for them? Cannot we carry
on our wars with England without
their assistance? We shall never
do any good as long as they are
with us. Let them be told to go
back again, for we are sufficient in
Scotland to fight our own battles,
and need not their aid. We neither
understand their language nor
they ours, so that we cannot converse
together. They will very
soon cut up and destroy all we
have in this country, and will do
more harm if we allow them to
remain among us than the English
could in battle. If the English
do burn our houses, what great
matter is it to us? We can rebuild
them at little cost, for we require
only three days to do so, so that
we but have five or six poles, with
boughs to cover them.”</p>

<p class='c012'>The French knights, accustomed
to abject submission among their
own peasantry, were loth to comprehend
the fierce independence of
the Scots common people, and were
ever irritating them into bloody
reprisals. A short sentence of
Froissart’s conveys a world of
meaning on this specialty: “Besides,
whenever their servants
went out to forage, they were indeed
permitted to load their horses
with as much as they could pack
up and carry, but they were waylaid
on their return, and villanously
beaten, robbed, and sometimes
slain, insomuch that no varlet dare
go out foraging for fear of death.
In one month the French lost upwards
of a hundred varlets; for
when three or four went out foraging,
not one returned, in such a
hideous manner were they treated.”
As we have seen, a not unusual
incident of purveying in France
was, that the husbandman was
hung up by the heels and roasted
before his own fire until he disgorged
his property. The Scots
peasantry had a decided prejudice
against such a process, and, being
accustomed to defend themselves
from all oppression, resisted even
that of their allies, to the extreme
astonishment and wrath of those
magnificent gentlemen. There is a
sweet unconsciousness in Froissart’s
indignant denunciation of the robbing
of the purveyors, which meant
the pillaged peasantry recovering
their own goods. But the chronicler
was of a thorough knightly
nature, and deemed the peasantry
of a country good for nothing but
to be used up. Hence, in his
wrath, he says: “In Scotland you
will never find a man of worth;
they are like savages, who wish not
to be acquainted with any one, and
are too envious of the good fortune
of others, and suspicious of losing
anything themselves, for their
country is very poor. When the
English make inroads thither, as
they have very frequently done,
they order their provisions, if they
wish to live, to follow close at
their backs; for nothing is to be
had in that country without great
difficulty. There is neither iron to
shoe horses, nor leather to make
harness, saddles, or bridles; all
these things come ready made from
Flanders by sea; and should these
fail, there is none to be had in the
country.” What a magnificent
contrast to such a picture is the
present relative condition of Scotland
and the Low Countries! and
yet these have not suffered any
awful reverse of fortune—they have
merely abided in stagnant respectability.</p>

<p class='c012'>It must be remembered, in estimating
the chronicler’s pungent
remarks upon our poor ancestors,
that he was not only a worshipper
of rank and wealth, but thoroughly
English in his partialities, magnifying
the feats in arms of the great
enemies of his own country. The
records of the Scots Parliament of
1395 curiously confirm the inference
from his narrative, that the
French were oppressive purveyors,
and otherwise unobservant of the
people’s rights. An indenture, as
it is termed—the terms of a sort of
compact with the strangers—appears
among the records, conspicuous
among their other Latin and vernacular
contents as being set forth
in French, in courtesy, of course, to
the strangers. It expressly lays
down that no goods of any kind
shall be taken by force, under
pain of death, and none shall
be received without being duly
paid for—the dealers having free
access to come and go. There are
regulations, too, for suppressing
broils by competent authority, and
especially for settling questions between
persons of unequal degrees;
a remedy for the French practice,
which left the settlement entirely
with the superior. This document
is one of many showing that, in
Scotland, there were arrangements
for protecting the personal freedom
of the humbler classes, and their
rights of property, the fulness of
which is little known, because the
like did not exist in other countries,
and those who have written philosophical
treatises on the feudal system,
or on the progress of Europe
from barbarism to civilisation, have
generally lumped all the countries
of Europe together. The sense of
personal freedom seems to have
been rather stronger in Scotland
than in England; it was such as
evidently to astound the French
knights. At the end of the affair,
Froissart expresses this surprise in
his usual simple and expressive
way. After a second or third complaint
of the unreasonable condition
that his countrymen should
pay for the victuals they consumed,
he goes on, “The Scots said the
French had done them more mischief
than the English;” and when
asked in what manner, they replied,
“By riding through the corn,
oats, and barley on their march,
which they trod under foot, not
condescending to follow the roads,
for which damage they would have
a recompense before they left Scotland,
and they should neither find
vessel nor mariner who would dare
to put to sea without their permission.”</p>

<p class='c012'>Of the military events in the
short war following the arrival of
the French, an outline will be found
in the ordinary histories; but it was
attended by some conditions which
curiously bring out the specialties of
the two nations so oddly allied. One
propitiatory gift the strangers had
brought with them, which was far
more highly appreciated than their
own presence; this was a thousand
stand of accoutrements for men-at-arms.
They were of the highest excellence,
being selected out of the store
kept in the Castle of Beauté for
the use of the Parisians. When
these were distributed among the
Scots knights, who were but poorly
equipped, the chronicler, as if he
had been speaking of the prizes
at a Christmas-tree, tells how those
who were successful and got them
were greatly delighted. The Scots
did their part in their own way:
they brought together thirty thousand
men, a force that drained the
country of its available manhood.
But England had at that time nothing
to divert her arms elsewhere,
and the policy adopted was to send
northwards a force sufficient to
crush Scotland for ever. It consisted
of seven thousand mounted
men-at-arms, and sixty thousand
bow and bill men—a force from
three to four times as large as the
armies that gained the memorable
English victories in France. Of
these, Agincourt was still to come
off, but Crecy and Poictiers were
over, along with many other affairs
that might have taught the French
a lesson. The Scots, too, had suffered
two great defeats—Neville’s Cross
and Halidon Hill—since their great
national triumph. The impression
made on each country by their experiences
brought out their distinct
national characteristics. The
French knights were all ardour and
impatience; they clamoured to be
at the enemy without ascertaining
the amount or character of his
force. The wretched internal wars
of their own country had taught
them to look on the battle-field as
the arena of reason in personal conflict,
rather than the great tribunal
in which the fate of nations was
to be decided, and communities
come forth freed or enslaved.</p>

<p class='c012'>To the Scots, on the other hand,
the affair was one of national life
or death, and they would run no
risks for distinction’s sake. Picturesque
accounts have often been
repeated of a scene where Douglas,
or some other Scots leader, brought
the Admiral to an elevated spot
whence he could see and estimate
the mighty host of England; but
the most picturesque of all the accounts
is the original by Froissart,
of which the others are parodies.
The point in national tactics brought
out by this incident is the singular
recklessness with which the French
must have been accustomed to do
battle. In total ignorance of the
force he was to oppose, and not
seeking to know aught concerning
it, the Frenchman’s voice was still
for war. When made to see with
his own eyes what he had to encounter,
he was as reluctant as his
companions to risk the issue of a
battle, but not so fertile in expedients
for carrying on the war effectively
without one. The policy
adopted was to clear the country before
the English army as it advanced,
and carry everything portable and
valuable within the recesses of the
mountain-ranges, whither the inhabitants
not fit for military service
went with their effects. A desert
being thus opened for the progress
of the invaders, they were left to
wander in it unmolested while the
Scots army went in the opposite direction,
and crossed the Border southwards.
Thus the English army found
Scotland empty—the Scots army
found England full. The one wore
itself out in a fruitless march, part
of it straggling, it was said, as far
as Aberdeen, and returned thinned
and starving, while the other was
only embarrassed by the burden of
its plunder. Much destruction there
was, doubtless, on both sides, but
it fell heaviest where there was
most to destroy, and gratified at
last in some measure the French,
who “said among themselves they
had burned in the bishoprics of
Durham and Carlisle more than the
value of all the towns in the kingdom
of Scotland.” But havoc does
not make wealth, and whether or
not the Scots knew better from experience
how to profit by such opportunities,
the French, when they
returned northward, were starving.
Their object now was to get out of
the country as fast as they could.
Froissart, with a touch of dry humour,
explains that their allies had
no objection to speed the exit of
the poorer knights, but resolved to
hold the richer and more respectable
in a sort of pawn for the damage
which the expedition had inflicted
on the common people. The
Admiral asked his good friends the
Lords Douglas and Moray to put a
stop to these demands; but these
good knights were unable to accommodate
their brethren in this little
matter, and the Admiral was obliged
to give effectual pledges from his
Government for the payment of the
creditors. There is something in
all this that seems utterly unchivalrous
and even ungenerous; but it
had been well for France had Froissart
been able to tell a like story of
her peasantry. It merely shows us
that our countrymen of that day
were of those who “knew their
rights, and, knowing, dared maintain
them;” and was but a demonstration
on a humbler, and, if you
will, more sordid shape, of the same
spirit that had swept away the
Anglo-Norman invaders. The very
first act which their chronicler
records concerning his knightly
friends, after he has exhausted his
wrath against the hard and mercenary
Scot, is thoroughly suggestive.
Some of the knights tried other
fields of adventure, “but the greater
number returned to France, and
were so poor they knew not how
to remount themselves, especially
those from Burgundy, Champagne,
Bar, and Lorraine, <em>who seized the
labouring horses wherever they found
them in the fields</em>,” so impatient
were they to regain their freedom
of action.</p>

<p class='c012'>So ended this affair, with the aspect
of evil auspices for the alliance.
The adventurers returned “cursing
Scotland, and the hour they had set
foot there. They said they had
never suffered so much in any expedition,
and wished the King of
France would make a truce with
the English for two or three years,
and then march to Scotland and
utterly destroy it; for never had
they seen such wicked people, nor
such ignorant hypocrites and traitors.”
But the impulsive denunciation
of the disappointed adventurers
was signally obliterated in
the history of the next half-century.
Ere many more years had passed
over them, that day of awful trial
was coming when France had to
lean on the strong arm of her early
ally; and, in fact, some of the denouncers
lived to see adventurers
from the sordid land of their contempt
and hatred commanding the
armies of France, and owning her
broad lordships. It was, in fact,
just after the return of Vienne’s
expedition, that the remarkable absorption
of Scotsmen into the aristocracy
of France, referred to in our
preceding paper, began to set in.</p>

<p class='c012'>This episode of the French expedition
to Scotland, small though
its place is in the annals of Europe,
yet merits the consideration of the
thoughtful historian, in affording a
significant example of the real causes
of the misery and degradation of
France at that time, and the wonderful
victories of the English kings.
Chivalry, courage, the love of enterprise,
high spirit in all forms,
abounded to superfluity among the
knightly orders, but received no
solid support from below. The
mounted steel-clad knights of the
period, in the highest physical condition,
afraid of nothing on the
earth or beyond it, and burning for
triumph and fame, could perform
miraculous feats of strength and
daring; but all passed off in
wasted effort and vain rivalry, when
there was wanting the bold peasantry,
who, with their buff jerkins,
and their bills and bows, or short
Scottish spears, were the real force
by which realms were held or
gained.</p>

<p class='c012'>The next affair in which M.
Michel notes his countrymen as
present among us, was a very peculiar
and exceptional one, with features
only too like those which were
such a scandal to the social condition
of France. It was that great
battle or tournament on the North
Inch of Perth, where opposite Highland
factions, called the clan Quhele
and clan Chattan, were pitted
against each other, thirty to thirty—an
affair, the darker colours of
which are lighted up by the eccentric
movements of the Gow Chrom,
or bandy-legged smith of Perth,
who took the place of a defaulter
in one of the ranks, to prevent the
spectacle of the day from being
spoilt. That such a contest should
have been organised to take
place in the presence of the king
and court, under solemnities and
regulations like some important
ordeal, has driven historical speculators
to discover what deep policy
for the pacification or subjugation
of the Highlands lay behind it.
The feature that gives it a place in
M. Michel’s book, is the briefest
possible notification by one of the
chroniclers, that a large number
of Frenchmen and other strangers
were present at the spectacle. This
draws us back from the mysterious
arcana of political intrigue to find
a mere showy pageant, got up to
enliven the hours of idle mirth—an
act, in short, of royal hospitality—a
show cunningly adapted to the
tastes of the age, yet having withal
the freshness of originality, being a
renaissance kind of combination of
the gladiatorial conflict of the Roman
circus with the tournament of
chivalry. The Highlanders were, in
fact, the human raw material which
a king of Scots could in that
day employ, so far as their nature
suited, for the use or the amusement
of his guests. Them, and
them only among his subjects, could
he use as the Empire used the
Transalpine barbarian—“butchered
to make a Roman holiday.” The
treatment of the Celt is the blot in
that period of our history. Never
in later times has the Red Indian or
Australian native been more the
hunted wild beast to the emigrant
settler, than the Highlander was to
his neighbour the Lowlander. True,
he was not easily got at, and, when
reached, he was found to have tusks.
They were a people never permitted
to be at rest from external assault;
yet such was their nature that, instead
of being pressed by a common
cause into compact union, they
were divided into communities that
hated each other almost more bitterly
than the common enemy. This
internal animosity has suggested
that the king wanted two factions
to exterminate each other as it were
symbolically, and accept the result
of a combat between two bodies of
chosen champions, as if there had
been an actual stricken field, with
all the able-bodied men on both
sides engaged in it. It was quite
safe to calculate that when the representatives
of the two contending
factions were set face to face on the
green sward, they would fly at each
other’s throats, and afford in an
abundant manner to the audience
whatever delectation might arise
from an intensely bloody struggle.
But, on the other hand, to expect the
Highlanders to be fools enough to
accept this sort of symbolical extinction
of their quarrel was too
preposterous a deduction for any
practical statesman. They had no
notion of leaving important issues
to the event of single combat, or
any of the other preposterous rules
of chivalry, but slew their enemies
where they could, and preferred
doing so secretly, and without risk
to themselves, when that was practicable.</p>

<p class='c012'>As we read on the history of the
two countries, France and Scotland,
we shall find the national friendship
which had arisen in their common
adversity gradually and almost
insensibly changing its character.
The strong current of migration
from Scotland which had
set in during the latter period of
the hundred years’ war stopped almost
abruptly. Scotsmen were still
hired as soldiers—sometimes got
other appointments—and, generally
speaking, were received with hospitality;
but in Louis XI.’s
reign, the time had passed when
they were accepted in the mass as a
valuable contribution to the aristocracy
of France, and forthwith invested
with titles and domains.
The families that had thus settled
down remembered the traditions of
their origin, but had no concern
with Scotland, and were thoroughly
French, nationally and socially.
France, too, was aggregating into a
compact nationality, to which her
sons could attach themselves with
some thrill of patriotic pride. She
made a great stride onward both in
nationality and prosperity during
the reign of that hard, greedy, penurious,
crafty, superstitious hypocrite,
Louis XI. By a sort of slow
corroding process he ate out, bit
by bit, the powers and tyrannies
that lay between his own and the
people. Blood, even the nearest,
was to him nowise thicker than
water, so he did not, like his predecessors,
let royal relations pick up
what territorial feudatories dropped;
he took all to himself, and, taking
it to himself, it became that French
empire which was to be inherited
by Francis I., Louis XIV., and
even the Napoleons; for he seems
to have had the principal hand in
jointing and fitting in the subordinate
machinery of that centralisation
which proved compact enough
in its details to be put together
again after the smash of the Revolution,
and which has proved itself
as yet the only system under which
France can flourish.</p>

<p class='c012'>Scotland was, at the same time,
rising under a faint sunshine of
prosperity—a sort of reflection of
that enjoyed by France. The connection
of the poor with the rich
country was becoming ever more
close, but at the same time it was
acquiring an unwholesome character.
The two could not fuse into
each other as England and Scotland
did; and, for all the pride of the
Scots, and their strong hold over
France, as the advanced-guard
mounted upon England, the connection
could not but lapse into a
sort of clientage—the great nation
being the patron, the small nation
the dependant. Whether for good
or evil, France infused into Scotland
her own institutions, which,
being those of the Roman Empire, as
practised throughout the Christian
nations of the Continent, made
Scotsmen free of those elements of
social communion, that <i><span lang="la">amitas gentium</span></i>,
from which England excluded
herself in sulky pride. This is visible,
or rather audible, at the present
day, in the Greek and Latin of the
Scotsmen of the old school, who can
make themselves understood all over
the world; while the English pronunciation,
differing from that of
the nations which have preserved
the chief deposits of the classic languages
in their own, must as assuredly
differ from the way in which
these were originally spoken. The
Englishman disdained the universal
Justinian jurisprudence, and would
be a law unto himself, which he
called, with an affectation of humility,
“The Common Law.” It is full,
no doubt, of patches taken out of the
‘Corpus Juris,’ but, far from their
source being acknowledged, the civilians
are never spoken of by the
common lawyers but to be railed at
and denounced; and when great
draughts on the Roman system were
found absolutely necessary to keep
the machine of justice in motion,
these were entirely elbowed out of
the way by common law, and had
to form themselves into a separate
machinery of their own, called
Equity. Scotland, on the other
hand, received implicitly from her
leader in civilisation the great body
of the civil law, as collected and
arranged by the most laborious of
all labouring editors, Denis Godefroi.
We brought over also an exact
facsimile of the French system of
public prosecution for crime, from
the great state officer at the head of
the system to the Procureurs du
Roi. It is still in full practice and
eminently useful; but it is an arrangement
that, to be entirely beneficial,
needs to be surrounded by constitutional
safeguards; and though
there has been much pressure of
late to establish it in England, one
cannot be surprised that it was
looked askance at while the great
struggles for fixing the constitution
were in progress.</p>

<p class='c012'>The practice of the long-forgotten
States-General of France was an
object of rather anxious inquiry at
the reassembling of that body in
1789, after they had been some four
centuries and a half in a state of adjournment
or dissolution. The investigations
thus occasioned brought
out many peculiarities which were
in practical observance in Scotland
down to the Union. All the world
has read of that awful crisis arising
out of the question whether the
Estates should vote collectively or
separately. Had the question remained
within the bounds of reason
and regulation, instead of being virtually
at the issue of the sword,
much instructive precedent would
have been obtained for its settlement
by an examination of the proceedings
of that Parliament of Scotland
which adjusted the Union—an
exciting matter also, yet, to the credit
of our country, discussed with
perfect order, and obedience to rules
of practice which, derived from the
custom of the old States-General of
France, were rendered pliant and
adaptable by such a long series of
practical adaptations as the country
of their nativity was not permitted
to witness.</p>

<p class='c012'>There was a very distinct adaptation
of another French institution of
later origin, when the Court of Session
was established in 1533. Before
that, the king’s justices administered
the law somewhat as in
England, but there was an appeal
to Parliament; and as that body did
its judicial work by committees,
these became virtually the supreme
courts of the realm. If the reader
wants to have assurance that there
is something really sound in this information,
by receiving it in the current
coin of its appropriate technicalities,
let him commit to memory
that the chief standing committee
was named that of the <i><span lang="la">Domini auditorii
ad querelas</span></i>. When he uses
that term, nobody will question the
accuracy of what he says. The Court
of Session, established to supersede
this kind of tribunal, was exactly
a French parliament—a body exercising
appellate judicial functions,
along with a few others of a legislative
character—few in this country,
but in France sufficiently extensive
to render the assembling of the
proper Parliament of the land and
the States-General unnecessary for
all regal purposes.</p>

<p class='c012'>In other institutions—the universities,
for instance—we find not
merely the influence of French example,
but an absolute importation
of the whole French structure and
discipline. The University of King’s
College in Aberdeen was constructed
on the model of the great University
of Paris. Its founder, Bishop
Elphinston, had taught there for
many years; so had its first principal,
Hector Boece, the most garrulous
and credulous of historians.
The transition from the Paris to the
Aberdeen of that day, must have
been a descent not to be estimated
by the present relative condition
of the two places; and one cannot
be surprised to find Hector
saying that he was seduced northwards
by gifts and promises. It
is probable that we would find
fewer actual living remnants of the
old institution in Paris itself than
in the northern imitation. There
may be yet found the offices of regent
and censor, for the qualities
of which one must search in the
mighty folios of <cite>Bullæus</cite>. There
survives the division into nations—the
type of the unlimited
hospitality of the university as a
place where people of all nations
assembled to drink at the fountain
of knowledge. There also the youth
who flashes forth, for the first time,
in his scarlet plumage, is called a
<i><span lang="la">bejeant</span></i>, not conscious, perhaps, that
the term was used to the first-session
students of the French universities
hundreds of years ago, and that it
is derived by the learned from <i><span lang="fr">bec
jaune</span></i>, or yellow nib. If the reader
is of a sentimentally domestic turn,
he may find in the term the conception
of an <em>alma mater</em>, shielding the
innocent brood from surrounding
dangers; and if he be knowing and
sarcastic, he may suppose it to refer
to a rawness and amenability to be
trotted out, expressed in the present
day by the synonymous <em>freshman</em>
and <em>greenhorn</em>.</p>

<p class='c012'>There is a still more distinct
stamp of a French type, in the
architecture of our country, so entirely
separate from the English
style, in the flamboyant Gothic of
the churches, and the rocket-topped
turrets of the castles; but on this
specialty we shall not here enlarge,
having, in some measure, examined
it several years ago.<a id='r8'></a><a href='#f8' class='c015'><sup>[8]</sup></a> It was not
likely that all these, with many
other practices, should be imported
into the nation, however gradually,
without the people having a consciousness
that they were foreign.
They were not established without
the aid of men, showing, by their
air and ways, that they and their
practices were alike alien. He,
however, who gave the first flagrant
offence, in that way, to the national
feeling, was a descendant of one of
the emigrant Scots of the fifteenth
century, and by blood and rank
closely allied to the Scottish throne,
although every inch a Frenchman.</p>

<p class='c012'>To watch in history the action
and counteraction of opposing
forces which have developed some
grand result, yet by a slight and
not improbable impulse the other
way might have borne towards an
opposite conclusion equally momentous,
is an interesting task,
with something in it of the excitement
of the chase. In pursuing
the traces which bring Scotland
back to her English kindred, and
saved her from a permanent annexation
to France, the arrival of John
Duke of Albany in Scotland, in
1515, is a critical turning-point.
Already had the seed of the union
with England been planted when
James IV. got for a wife the
daughter of Henry VII. Under
the portrait of this sagacious king,
Bacon wrote the mysterious motto—<i><span lang="la">Cor
regis inscrutabile</span></i>. It would
serve pleasantly to lighten up and
relieve a hard and selfish reputation,
if one could figure him, in the
depths of his own heart, assuring
himself of having entered in the
books of fate a stroke of policy that
at some date, however distant, was
destined to appease the long bloody
contest of two rival nations, and
unite them into a compact and
mighty empire. The prospects of
such a consummation were at first
anything but encouraging. The old
love broke in counteracting the
prudential policy; and, indeed,
never did besotted lover abandon
himself to wilder folly than
James IV., when, at the bidding of
Anne of France as the lady of his
chivalrous worship, he resolved to
be her true knight, and take three
steps into English ground. When
a chivalrous freak, backed by a few
political irritations scarce less important,
strewed the moor of
Flodden with the flower of the
land, it was time for Scotland to
think over the rationality of this
distant alliance, which deepened and
perpetuated her feud with her close
neighbour of kindred blood. Well
for him, the good, easy, frank, chivalrous
monarch, that he was buried
in the ruin he had made, and saw
not the misery of a desolated nation.
Of the totally alien object
for which all the mischief had been
done, there was immediate evidence
in various shapes. One curious little
item of it is brought out by certain
researches of M. Michel, which have
also a significant bearing on the
conflict between the secular and
the papal power in the disposal of
benefices. The Pope, Julius II.,
was anxious to gain over to his
interest Mathew Lang, bishop of
Gorz, and secretary to the Emperor
Maximilian, who was called to
Rome and blessed by the vision of
a cardinal’s hat, and the papal influence
in the first high promotion
that might open. The archbishopric
of Bourges became vacant. The
chapter elected one of our old
friends of the Scots emigrant
families, Guillaume de Monypeny,
brother of the Lord of Concressault;
but the King, Louis XII., at
first stood out for Brillac, bishop
of Orleans, resisted by the chapter.
The bishop of Gorz then
came forward with a force sufficient
to sweep away both candidates.
He was favoured of the
Pope: his own master, Maximilian,
desired for his secretary this foreign
benefice, which would cost himself
nothing; and Louis found somehow
that the bishop was as much his
own humble servant as the Emperor’s.
No effect of causes sufficient
seemed in this world more
assured than that Mathew Lang,
bishop of Gorz, should also be
archbishop of Bourges; but the
fortune of war rendered it before
his collation less important to have
the bishop of Gorz in the archiepiscopate
than another person. The
King laid his hand again on the
chapter, and required them to postulate
one whose name and condition
must have seemed somewhat
strange to them—Andrew Forman,
bishop of Moray, in the north of
Scotland. There are reasons for
all things. Forman was ambassador
from Scotland to France, and
thus had opportunities of private
communication with James IV. and
Louis XII. This latter, in a letter
to the Chapter of Bourges, explains
his signal obligations to Forman
for having seconded the allurements
of the Queen, and instigated
the King of Scots to make war
against England, explaining how
<i><span lang="fr">icelui, Roy d’Escosse s’est ouvertement
declaré vouloir tenir nostre party et
faire la guerre actuellement contre le
Roy d’Angleterre</span></i>. Lest the chapter
should doubt the accuracy of this
statement of the services performed
to France by Forman, the King
sent them <i><span lang="fr">le double des lectres que
le dict Roy d’Escosse nous a escriptes
et aussi de la defiance q’il a fait
au dict Roy d’Angleterre</span></i>. The King
pleaded hard with the chapter to
postulate Forman, representing that
they could not find a better means
of securing his own countenance and
protection. The Scotsman backed
this royal appeal by a persuasive
letter, which he signed Andrè,
<i><span lang="fr">Arcevesque de Bourges et Evesque de
Morray</span></i>. Influence was brought to
bear on the Pope himself, and he
declared his leaning in favour of
Forman. The members of the
chapter, who had been knocked
about past endurance in the affair
of the archbishopric from first to
last, threatened resistance and martyrdom;
but the pressure of the
powers combined against them
brought them to reason, and Forman
entered Bourges in archiepiscopal
triumph. But the ups and
downs of the affair were as yet by
no means at an end. That great
pontiff, who never forgot that the
head of the Church was a temporal
prince, Leo X., had just ascended
the throne, and found that it
would be convenient to have this
archbishopric of Bourges for his
nephew, Cardinal Abo. By good
luck the see of St Andrews, the
primacy of Scotland, was then vacant,
and was given as an equivalent
for the French dignity. Such
a promotion was a symbolically appropriate
reward for the services of
Forman; his predecessor fell at
Flodden, and thus, in his services
to the King of France, he had
made a vacancy for himself. He
had for some time in his pocket,
afraid to show it, the Pope’s bull
appointing him Archbishop of St
Andrews and Primate of Scotland.
This was a direct act of interference
contrary to law and custom, since
the function of the Pope was only
to collate or confirm, as ecclesiastical
superior, the choice made by
the local authorities. These had
their favourite for the appointment,
Prior Hepburn, who showed his
earnestness in his own cause by
taking and holding the Castle of
St Andrews. A contest of mingled
ecclesiastical and civil elements, too
complex to be disentangled, followed;
but in the end Forman
triumphed, having on his side the
efforts of the King of France and
his servant Albany, with the Pope’s
sense of justice. The rewards of
this highly endowed divine were
the measure alike of his services to
France and of his injuries to Scotland.
He held, by the way, <em>in commendam</em>,
a benefice in England;
and as he had a good deal of diplomatic
business with Henry VIII.,
it may not uncharitably be supposed
that he sought to feather his
hat with English as well as French
plumage. It was in the midst of
these affairs, which were bringing
out the dangerous and disastrous
elements in the French alliance,
that Albany arrived.</p>

<p class='c012'>Albany’s father, the younger brother
of James III., had lived long
in France, got great lordships there,
and thoroughly assimilated himself
to the Continental system. He married
Anne de la Tour, daughter of
the Count of Auvergne and Boulogne,
of a half princely family,
which became afterwards conspicuous
by producing Marshal Turenne,
and at a later period the eccentric
grenadier, Latour d’Auvergne, who,
in homage to republican principles,
would not leave the subaltern ranks
in Napoleon’s army, and became
more conspicuous by remaining
there than many who escaped from
that level to acquire wealth and
power. The sister of Anne de la
Tour married Lorenzo de Medici,
Duke of Urbino. From this connection
Albany was the uncle of Catherine
de Medici, the renowned Queen
of France, and, in fact, was the nearest
relative, who, as folks used to
say in this country, “gave her away”
to Henry II. On this occasion he
got a cardinal’s hat for Philip de
la Chambre, his mother’s son by
a second marriage. He lived thoroughly
in the midst of the Continental
royalties of the day, and
had the sort of repute among them
that may be acquired by a man
of great influence and connection,
whose capacity has never been tried
by any piece of critical business—a
repute that comes to persons in a
certain position by a sort of process
of gravitation. Brave he seems to
have been, like all his race, and he
sometimes held even important commands.
He accompanied his friend,
Francis I., in his unfortunate raid
into Italy in 1525, and was fortunately
and honourably clear of
that bad business, the battle of
Pavia, by being then in command of
a detachment sent against Naples.</p>

<p class='c012'>There are men who, when they
shift their place and function, can
assimilate themselves to the changed
conditions around them—who can
find themselves surrounded by unwonted
customs and ways, and yet
accept the condition that the men
who follow these are pursuing the
normal condition of their being,
and must be left to do so in peace,
otherwise harm will come of it;
and in this faculty consists the instinct
which enables men to govern
races alien to their own. Albany
did not possess it. He appears to
have been ignorant of the language
of Scotland, and to have thought
or rather felt that, wherever he was,
all should be the same as in the
midst of Italian and French courtiers;
and if it were not so, something
was wrong, and should be
put right. It was then the commencement
of a very luxurious age
in France—an age of rich and showy
costumes, of curls, perfumes, cosmetics,
and pet spaniels—and Albany
was the leader of fashion in
all such things. It is needless to
say how powerfully all this contrasted
with rough Scotland—what
a shocking set of barbarians he
found himself thrown among—how
contemptible to the rugged Scots
nobles was the effeminate Oriental
luxury of the little court he imported
from Paris, shifted northwards
as some wealthy luxurious
sportsman takes a detachment from
his stable, kennel, and servants’
hall, to a bothy in the Highlands.</p>

<p class='c012'>He arrived, however, in a sort of
sunshine. At that calamitous moment
the nearest relation of the
infant king, a practised statesman,
was heartily welcome. He brought
a small rather brilliant fleet with
him, which was dignified by his
high office as Admiral of France;
he brought also some money and
valuable trifles, which were not inacceptable.
Wood, in his ‘Peerage,’
tells us that “The peers and chiefs
crowded to his presence: his exotic
elegance of manners, his condescension,
affability, and courtesy of demeanour,
won all hearts.” If so,
these were not long retained. He
came, indeed, just before some
tangible object was wanted against
which to direct the first sulky
feelings of the country towards
France; and he served the purpose
exactly, for his own handiwork
was the cause of that feeling.
In a new treaty between France
and England, in which he bore a
great if not the chief part, Scotland
was for the first time treated as a
needy and troublesome hanger-on
of France. Instead of the old courtesy,
which made Scotland, nominally
at least, an independent party
to the treaty, it was made directly
by France, but Scotland was comprehended
in it, with a warning
that if there were any of the old raids
across the Border, giving trouble as
they had so often done, the Scots
should forfeit their part in the treaty.
This patronage during good behaviour
roused the old pride, and was
one of many symptoms that Albany
had come to them less as the representative
of their own independent
line of kings, than as the administrator
of a distant province of the
French empire. The humiliation
was all the more bitter from the
deep resentments that burned in
the people’s hearts after the defeat
of Flodden, and it was with difficulty
that the Estates brought themselves
to say that, though Scotland
believed herself able single-handed
to avenge her losses, yet, out of
respect for the old friendship of
France, the country would consent
to peace with England.</p>

<p class='c012'>Setting to work after the manner
of one possessed of the same supreme
authority as the King of
France, Albany began his government
with an air of rigour, insomuch
that the common historians
speak of him as having resolved to
suppress the turbulent spirit of the
age, and assert the supremacy of
law and order. He thus incurred
the reputation of a grasping tyrant.
The infant brother of the king died
suddenly; his mother said Albany
had poisoned the child, and people
shuddered for his brother, now
standing alone between the Regent
and the throne, and talked ominously
of the manner in which
Richard III. of England was popularly
believed to have achieved
the crown by murdering his
nephews. It is from this period
that we may date the rise of
a really English party in Scotland—a
party who feared the designs
of the French, and who
thought that, after having for two
hundred years maintained her independence,
Scotland might with
fair honour be combined with the
country nearest to her and likest
in blood, should the succession to
both fall to one prince, and that it
would be judicious to adjust the
royal alliances in such a manner
as to bring that to pass. Such
thoughts were in the mean time
somewhat counteracted by the lightheaded
doings of her who was the
nation’s present tie to England—the
Queen-Dowager—whose grotesque
and flagrant love-affairs are
an amusing episode, especially to
those who love the flavour of ancient
scandal; while all gracious
thoughts that turned themselves
towards England were met in the
teeth by the insults and injuries
which her savage brother, Henry
VIII., continued to pile upon the
country.</p>

<p class='c012'>Up to this point it does not
happen to us to have noted instances
of offices of emolument in
Scotland given to Frenchmen, and
the fuss made about one instance
of the kind leads to the supposition
that they must have been rare.
Dunbar the poet, who was in priest’s
orders, was exceedingly clamorous
in prose and in verse—in the serious
and in the comic vein—for preferment.
Perhaps he was the kind
of person whom it is as difficult to
prefer in the Church as it was to
make either Swift or Sydney Smith
a bishop. His indignation was greatly
roused by the appointment of a
foreigner whom he deemed beset by
his own special failings, but in far
greater intensity, to the abbacy of
Tungland; and he committed his
griefs to a satirical poem, called
‘The fenyet Freir of Tungland.’
The object of this poem has been
set down by historians as an Italian,
but M. Michel indicates him as a
countryman of his own, by the
name of Jean Damien. He is called
a charlatan, quack, and mountebank,
and might, perhaps, with equal accuracy,
be called a devotee of natural
science, who speculated ingeniously
and experimented boldly. He was
in search of the philosopher’s stone,
and believed himself to be so close
on its discovery that he ventured to
embark the money of King James
IV., and such other persons as participated
in his own faith, in the
adventure to realise the discovery,
and saturate all the partners in
riches indefinite. This was a speculation
of a kind in which many
men of that age indulged; and
they were men not differing from
others except in their scientific attainments,
adventurous propensities,
and sanguine temperaments.
The class still exists among us,
though dealing rather in iron than
gold; as if we had in the history
of speculation, from the alchemists
down to Capel Court, something that
has been prophesied in that beautiful
mythological sequence liked so
much at all schools, beginning—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c013'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<span lang="la">Aurea prima sata est ætas, quæ vindice nullo</span></div>
      <div class='line'><span lang="la">Sponte sua sine lege fidem rectumque colebat.</span>”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c014'>It might be a fair question whether
the stranger’s science is so obsolete
as the style of literature in which
he is attacked, since Dunbar’s satirical
poem, among other minor indications
of a character unsuited to
the higher offices in the Christian
ministry, insinuates that the adventurer
committed several murders;
and although, the charge is
made in a sort of rough jocularity,
the force of it does not by any
means rest on its absurdity and incredibility.
He was accused of a
mad project for extracting gold
from the Wanlockhead Hills, in
Dumfriesshire, which cannot be utterly
scorned in the present day,
since gold has actually been extracted
from them, though, the process
has not returned twenty shillings
to the pound. This curious
creature completed his absurdities
by the construction of a pair of
wings, with which he was to take a
delightful aerial excursion to his
native country. He proved his
sincerity by starting in full feather
from Stirling Castle. In such affairs
it is, as Madame du Deffaud
said about that walk taken by St
Denis round Paris with his own
head for a burden, <i><span lang="fr">le premier pas
qui coute</span></i>. The poor adventurer
tumbled at once, and was picked
up with a broken thigh-bone. Such
is the only Frenchman who became
conspicuous before Albany’s time as
holding rank and office in Scotland.</p>

<p class='c012'>Albany had not long rubbed on
with the Scots Estates when he
found that he really must go to
Paris, and as there seems to have
been no business concerning Scotland
that he could transact there,
an uncontrollable yearning to be
once more in his own gay world is
the only motive we can find for
his trip. The Estates of Scotland
were in a surly humour, and not
much inclined to allow him his
holidays. They appointed a council
of regency to act for him. He,
however, as if he knew nothing
about the constitutional arrangements
in Scotland, appointed a sort
of representative, who cannot have
known more about the condition
and constitution of Scotland than
his constituent, though he had
been one of the illustrious guests
present at the marriage of James
IV. He was called by Pitscottie
‘Monsieur Tilliebattie,’ but his full
name was Antoine d’Arces de la
Bastie, and he had been nicknamed
or distinguished, as the case might
be, as the Chevalier Blanc, or White
Knight, like the celebrated Joannes
Corvinus, the Knight of Wallachia,
whose son became king of Hungary.
M. Michel calls him the
“<i><span lang="fr">chivalresque et brillant La Bastie,
chez qui le guerrier et l’homme
d’état etaient encore supérieurs au
champion des tournois</span></i>.” He was a
sort of fanatic for the old principle
of chivalry, then beginning to disappear
before the breath of free
inquiry, and the active useful pursuits
it was inspiring. M. Michel
quotes from a contemporary writer,
who describes him as perambulating
Spain, Portugal, England, and
France, and proclaiming himself
ready to meet all comers of sufficient
rank, not merely to break a
lance in chivalrous courtesy, but <i><span lang="fr">à
combattre à l’outrance</span></i>—an affair
which even at that time was too
important to be entered on as a frolic,
or to pass an idle hour, but really
required some serious justification.
No one, it is said, accepted the
challenge but the cousin of James
IV. of Scotland, who is said to
have been conquered, but not killed,
as from the nature of the challenge
he should have been; but this
story seems to be a mistake by
the contemporary, and M. Michel
merely quotes it without committing
himself.</p>

<p class='c012'>Such was the person left by the
regent as his representative, though
apparently with no specific office or
powers acknowledged by the constitution
of Scotland. Research might
perhaps afford new light to clear up
the affair, but at present the only
acknowledgment of his existence,
bearing anything like an official
character, are entries in the Scots
treasurer’s accounts referred to by
M. Michel, one of them authorising
a payment of fifteen shillings
to a messenger to the warden of
the middle march, “with my lord
governor’s letters delivered by
Monsr. Labawte;” another payment
to his servant for summoning
certain barons and gentlemen to
repair to Edinburgh; and a payment
of twenty shillings, for a service
of more import, is thus entered:—“Item,
deliverit be Monsieur Lawbawtez
to Johne Langlandis, letters
of our sovereign lords to summon
and warn all the thieves and
broken men out of Tweeddale and
Eskdale in their own country—quhilk
letters were proclaimed at
market-cross of Roxburgh, Selkirk,
and Jedwood.”</p>

<p class='c012'>This proclamation seems to have
been the deadly insult which sealed
his fate. The borders had hardly
yet lost their character of an independent
district, which might have
merged into something like a German
margravate. There had been
always some family holding a preponderating
and almost regal power
there. At this time it was the
Homes or Humes, a rough set, with
their hands deeply dipped in blood,
who little dreamed that their name
would be known all over Europe
by the fame of a fat philosopher
sitting writing in a peaceful library
with a goosequill, and totally innocent
of the death of a fellow-being.
It was one of Albany’s rigorous
measures to get the leaders of
this clan “untopped,” to use one
of Queen Elizabeth’s amiable pleasantries.
This was a thing to be
avenged; and since La Bastie was
taking on himself the responsibilities
of Albany, it was thought as
well that he should not evade this
portion of them. To lure him
within their reach, a sort of mock
fight was got up by the borderers
in the shape of the siege of one of
their peel towers. Away went La
Bastie in all his bravery, dreaming,
simple soul, as if he were in
Picardy or Tourain, that the mere
name of royalty would at once
secure peace and submission. His
eye, practised in scenes of danger,
at once saw murder in the gaze of
those he had ventured among, and
he set spurs to his good horse, hoping
to reach his headquarters in
the strong castle of Dunbar. The
poor fellow, however, ignorant of
the country, and entirely unaided,
was overtaken in a bog. It is said
that he tried cajoling, threats, and
appeals to honour and chivalrous
feeling. As well speak to a herd
of hungry wolves as to those grim
ministers of vengeance! The Laird
of Wedderburn, a Home, enjoyed
the distinction of riding with the
Frenchman’s head, tied by its perfumed
tresses at his saddle-bow,
into the town of Dunse, where the
trophy was nailed to the market-cross.
As old Pitscottie has it,
“his enemies came upon him, and
slew and murdered him very unhonestly,
and cutted off his head,
and carried it with them; and it
was said that he had long hair platt
over his neck, whilk David Home
of Wedderburn twust to his saddle-bow,
and keeped it.”</p>

<p class='c012'>This affair brought Scotland into
difficulties both with England and
France. Henry VIII. professed
himself displeased that a French
adventurer should have been set
up as ruler in his nephew’s kingdom,
and Francis I., who had just
mounted the throne of France, demanded
vengeance on the murderers
of his distinguished subject, with
whose chivalrous spirit he had a
congenial sympathy. There is an
exceedingly curious and suggestive
correspondence between France and
Scotland at the commencement of
M. Teulet’s papers, which has been
aptly compared to the papers that
have been returned to Parliament
by our Indian Government on the
negotiations with some wily Affghan
or Scinde chief, in which reparation
is demanded for outrages on a British
subject. There is much fussy
desire to comply with the demands
of the great power, but ever a difficulty,
real or pretended, in getting
anything done; and probably it
often is in the East, as it then was
in Scotland, that the difficulty in
punishing a set of powerful culprits
has a better foundation in their
power of self-defence than the government
is inclined to acknowledge.
Evil days, however, for a time
clouded the rising sun of France.
The battle of Pavia seemed to set
her prostrate for the time; and
when Scotland, having then many
inducements the other way, was
reminded of the old alliance, she
answered the appeal with her old
zeal.</p>

<p class='c012'>This article does not aspire to the
dignity of history. It has dealt
chiefly with the under current, as
it were, of the events connected
with the doings of the French in
Scotland—the secondary incidents,
which show how the two nations
got on together in their familiar
intercourse. Their intercourse,
however, now developes itself in
large historical features, to which it
is thought fitting to offer, in conclusion,
a general reference, merely
hinting at their connection with
the preceding details. Ostensibly,
and as matter of state policy, the
old alliance was so strong that it
seemed as if Scotland were drifting
under the lee of France to be a
mere colony or dependency of that
grand empire—though there were
influences at work which, in reality,
utterly defeated this expected consummation.
There was a brilliant
wedding when James V. went to
bring home Madeleine of France;
and was so honoured that, according
to the documents given by M.
Teulet, the officers charged with
the traditions of state precedents
grumbled about this prince of a
northern island, who knew no civilised
language, receiving honours
which had heretofore been deemed
sacred to the royal blood of France.
The national policy that held by
this marriage would have had but
a frail tenure, for poor Madeleine
soon drooped and died. She had
said, as a girl, that she wanted to
be a queen, be the realm she ruled
what it might; and so she had a
brief experience—this word seems
preferable to enjoyment—of the
throne of cold uncomfortable Scotland.
There was speedily another
wedding, bearing in the direction
of the French alliance, for that was
still uppermost with the governing
powers, whatever it might be with
the English and Protestant party
daily acquiring strength among the
district leaders, nobles or lairds.
It may have seemed to these, that
when the queen was no longer a
daughter of France, but a young
lady, the child of one feudatory
and the widow of another, with no
better claim to share the throne
than her beautiful face, there was
no further danger from France.
But the young queen was a Guise—one
of that wonderful race who
seemed advancing onwards, not only
to the supreme command of France,
but to something still greater, for
they have been known in their
boasting to speak of their house being
directly descended from Charlemagne.
When the daughter was
Queen of France, and the mother
ruled Scotland, the time for the
final annexation seemed close at
hand; but, in reality, the climax
had been reached, and the French
interest was near to its downfall.
While the queen-mother was taking
possession of the feudal strongholds,
and placing all the high offices of
state in the hands of Frenchmen—D’Oysells,
de Rubays, Villemores,
and the like—in France the proper
method of governing Scotland was
considered in council as a matter of
French policy; and the question
was discussed whether Scotland
should have the honour of belonging
to the crown of France, or
should be a provision for a younger
son of the house of Valois.</p>

<p class='c012'>Those busy politicians, called the
Lords of the Congregation, knew
these things, and were stimulated to
exertion accordingly. Hence came it
to pass that the Reformation was so
sudden an event in Scotland. On the
morning of the 1st of August 1560
the people of Scotland awakened
under the spiritual dominion of the
Pope—ere evening his hierarchy
was abolished, and to own it was
criminal. The work of that day
was not a deliberative act of legislation,
but the announcement of the
triumph of a party. After a long
deadly contest the English party
had gained a complete and final
victory. It almost enhanced the
triumph over French principles that
the Acts of this Parliament never
received the royal assent. Legislation
without the intervention of the
crown, was flat rebellion in the eyes
of France, and not very reconcilable
even with English decorum. It
was owing to this specialty that,
when Queen Mary engaged to support
the religion established by law
in Scotland, she was suspected, and
not without reason, of stowing away,
among the secrets of her heart, the
consideration likely to be some
day available, that Protestantism,
not having the sanction of the
crown, was not the religion established
by law. If we were to enter
with any fulness on this great passage
in history, and to view it
through the rich new light poured
upon it by the documents collected
by M. Teulet, we would require
more room than the quite sufficient
space which this article occupies.
We have opportunity only for this
brief reference to them, as the winding-up
and conclusion of that interesting
episode in history—the old
alliance between France and Scotland.</p>

<p class='c012'>Before parting, let us say a word
on the personal character and other
merits of the volumes which have
led us on this occasion to look into
the connection of our ancestors with
the French, and have furnished us
with the greater portion of the material
for our two articles. To see
two men of learning, research, and
various special abilities, devoting
what must be no inconsiderable
portion of a life’s labour to the
connection of our country with the
great French empire, is interesting
and pleasant, to say the least of it.
We are a nation disposed to court
the light; we are never afraid of
the effect that revelations of our
antecedents may have; we are sure
of coming well out in all inquiries
into our history and connections;
and the present elucidation has not
stripped a leaf from the national
laurels—indeed, we take it to have
only removed some of the dust that
covered them, and revealed their
real freshness and brightness. To the
labourers in such a task we should
feel that we owe a debt of kindly
gratitude, and this should not the
less impress us that the work has
been done by citizens of that great
old European central power which
befriended the poor children of our
soil in the days of their poverty and
danger. New interests and attachments,
more suitable to the position
of Scotland on the map of Europe,
and to the origin of her people,
afterwards arose. When centuries
of cruel wrong and alienation and
wrath had passed away, she became
reconciled to that great relation
which, let us suppose, in the usual
misunderstanding which creates the
quarrels in the romances, had treated
her as an alien enemy. But
while the reconciliation has been
long consolidated, and has proved
as natural a national adjustment as
the restoration of an exiled child is
a natural family adjustment, there
is still a pleasing sentiment in recalling
the friends found in the
wide world when kindred were unkind;
and the hospitable doors
opened to our wandering countrymen,
among those who stood at the
head of European civilisation in the
middle ages, must ever remain a
memorable record of the generosity
of the patrons, and of the merits of
those who so well requited their
generosity by faithful and powerful
services. To the volumes which
contain the record of this attachment
something more is due than
the mere recognition of their literary
merits—they deserve at the
hands of our countrymen an affectionate
recognition as national memorials.
The quantity of curious
and interesting matter contained in
them, but for the special zeal of the
two men who have thus come forward,
might have remained still
buried under archæological rubbish—might
have remained so for ever,
even until oblivion overtook them.
It is surely right to hope that the
zeal and labour embarked by the
adventurers will not be thrown
away; and that our countrymen
will take to the volumes, both of M.
Michel and of M. Teulet, as works
which it is becoming for them to
possess and read as patriotic Scotsmen.
If readers have found any
interest in the casual glimpses of
their contents supplied by the present
sketch, they may be assured
of finding much more matter of
the same kind should they undertake
an investigation of the volumes
themselves.</p>

<p class='c012'>Setting before one on the library
table the two volumes of M. Michel,
and the five of M. Teulet, is a good
deal like receiving one guest in full
court costume, prepared to meet
distinguished company, while another
comes to you in his lounging
home vestment of serge, with slippers
and smoking-cap, as if he had
just stepped across the way from
the scene of his laborious researches.
In the collections in
this country of some men who
have given themselves to works
illustrated by fine engravings, the
Book of the Ceremonial of the
Coronation of Louis XV. is conspicuous,
not only by its finely
engraved plates, but by the instruction
they afford as representations
of the costume and ways of
the great hierarchy of state officers
which clustered round the throne
of the Bourbons before the great
smash came. Among the most
conspicuous of these are the Scots
Guards, then no longer our countrymen,
though the title was retained.
The outfit must have appeared
signally beautiful and chivalrous
amid the ponderous state
habiliments which the eighteenth
century saw accumulate and fall
to pieces. It is evidently a traditional
type of the court or company
dress of the man-at-arms of
the fifteenth century—a sufficient
amount of steel to betoken the
warrior, richly damasked or inlaid
with precious metals—a superfluity
of lace and embroidered cloth of
silk or velvet. Altogether, a more
superbly and chivalrously accoutred
person than your Scottish Guard
it is difficult to idealise; and in
the original engraving there is
about him, both in countenance
and attitude, the air of one devoted
in enthusiasm and solemn sense of
responsibility, to the duty wherewith
he is intrusted. With a good
eye to the appropriate, M. Michel—it
is his own suggestion, we take it,
not the binder’s—has transferred
this striking figure to the outside of
this book, where it glitters in gold
on the true-blue background, which
also relieves the lion, the thistle, and
the <em>fleur-de-lys</em>. A glimpse we have
just had at a quarto and illustrated
copy of the book in the hands of
a fortunate collector, wherein is a
full engraved copy of the plate of
the Scots Guard, along with many
other appropriate artistical decorations;
but in this shape the book
is not put, so far as we are aware,
at the disposal of the public; and
any account of it is, in a manner,
a digression into something like
private affairs. Reverting to the
common published impression of
M. Michel’s book, let it suffice to
say that it is well filled with blazons
of the armorial achievements of our
countrymen, assuredly valuable to
workers in heraldry and genealogy,
and interesting to those descendants
of the stay-at-home portions
of the several families which established
themselves so comfortably
and handsomely in the territory of
our ancient ally.</p>

<p class='c012'>Looking apart from matters of
national interest to the literary
nature of M. Michel’s volumes, we
find in them specialties which we
know will be deemed signally meritorious;
but of the merits to be
found in them we have some difficulty
in speaking, since they are
literary virtues of a kind rather
out of the way of our appreciation—beyond
it, if the reader prefers
that way of expressing what is
meant. There is throughout these
two volumes the testimony to an
extent of dreary reading and searching
which would stimulate compassion,
were it not that he who
would be the victim, were that
the proper feeling in which he
should be approached, evidently
exults and glories, and is really
happy, in the conditions which
those who know no better would
set down as his hardships. There
are some who, when they run the
eye over arrêts and other formal
documents, over pedigrees, local
chronicles telling trifles, title-deeds,
and such-like documents, carry
with them a general impression
of the political or social lesson
taught by them, and discard from
recollection all the details from
which any such impression has
been derived. M. Michel is of
another kind; he has that sort of
fondness for his work which induces
him to show you it in all
stages, from the rude block to the
finished piece of art, so far as it is
finished. You are entered in all
the secrets of his workshop—you
participate in all his disappointments
and difficulties as well as
his successes. The research which
has had no available result is still
reported, in order that you may
see how useless it has been. We
repeat that we have not much
sympathy with this kind of literature,
yet would not desire to speak
profanely of it, since we know that
some consider it the only perfect
method of writing books on subjects
connected with history or
archæology. The “citation of authorities,”
in fact, is deemed, in
this department of intellectual labour,
something equivalent to records
of experiments in natural
science, and to demonstrations in
geometrical science. Our own sympathy
being with the exhibition
rather of results than of the means
of reaching them, we have not, unfortunately,
that high respect for
footnotes filled with accurate transcripts
of book-titles, which is
due to the high authorities by
whom the practice has been long
sanctioned. We can afford it, however,
the sort of distant unsympathising
admiration which people
bestow on accomplishments for
which they have no turn or sympathy—as
for those of the juggler,
the acrobat, and the accountant.
M. Michel’s way of citing the books
he refers to is indeed, to all appearance,
a miracle of perfection in this
kind of work. Sometimes he is at
the trouble of denoting where the
passage stands in more than one,
or even in every, edition of the
work. He gives chapter or section
as well as page and volume. In
old books counted not by the page
but the leaf, he will tell you which
side he desires you to look at, right
or left; and where, as is the way in
some densely printed old folios, in
addition to the arrangement of the
pages by numeration, divisions on
each page are separated by the
letters A B C, he tells you which
of these letters stands sentry on
the paragraph he refers to. There
is, at all events, a very meritorious
kind of literary honesty in all this,
and however disinclined to follow
it, no one has a right to object
to it.</p>

<p class='c012'>And, after all, a man who has
gone through so much hard forbidding
reading as M. Michel has,
is surely entitled to let us know
something about the dreary wastes
and rugged wildernesses through
which he has sojourned—all for
the purpose of laying before his
readers these two gay attractive-looking
volumes. Towards his
foreign reading, we in the general
instance lift the hat of respect,
acknowledging its high merits, on
the principle of the <i><span lang="la">omne ignotum
pro magnifico</span></i>. Upon the diligent
manner in which he has, in our
own less luxuriant field of inquiry
among Scots authorities, turned over
every stone to see what is under
it, we can speak with more distinct
assurance. Take one instance. The
young Earl of Haddington, the son
of that crafty old statesman called
Tam o’ the Cowgate, who scraped
together a fortune in public office
under James VI., was studying in
France, when he met and fell in
love with the beautiful Mademoiselle
De Chatillon, grand-daughter
of the Admiral Coligny. When
only nineteen years old he went
back to France, married her, and
brought her home. He died within
a year, however, and the countess,
a rich beautiful widow, returned to
her friends. She was, of course,
beset by admirers, and in reference
to these, M. Michel has turned up
a curious passage in ‘Les Histoirettes
de Fallemant des Réaux,’
which, if true, shows the persevering
zeal with which our queen,
Henrietta Maria, seized every opportunity
to promote the cause of
her religion. The countess, being
Huguenot, and of a very Huguenot
family, the queen was eager that
she should be married to a Roman
Catholic, and selected the son of
her friend Lady Arundel. The
dominion over her affections was,
however, held by “<span lang="fr">un jeune Ecossois
nommé Esbron, neveu du
Colonel Esbron</span>.” The name is
French for the chevalier Hepburn,
one of the most renowned soldiers
in the French service in the early
part of the seventeenth century.
The mamma Chatillon was dead
against either connection. She got
a fright by hearing that her daughter
had been carried off to the
Fenêbres, or the services of Easter-week
which inaugurate Good-Friday;
she consequently gave her a
maternal box on the ear, carried
her off, and, to keep her out of
harm’s way, forthwith married her
to the Count de la Suze, <i><span lang="fr">tout
borgne, tout ivrogne et tout indetté
qu’il étoit</span></i>. M. Michel’s purpose is
not with this desirable husband,
nor with his wife after she ceases
to be connected with Scotland,
but with the young Hepburn who
comes casually across the scene.
Following in his track entirely, the
next quarter where, after appearing
in the ‘Histoirettes,’ he turns
up, is Durie’s ‘Decisions of the
Court of Session.’ This is by no
means one of the books which every
well-informed man is presumed
to know. So toughly is it stuffed
with the technicalities and involutions
of old Scots law, and so confused
and involved is every sentence
of it by the natural haziness
of its author, that probably no living
English writer would dare to meddle
with it. No Scotsman would,
unless he be lawyer—nor, indeed,
would any lawyer, unless of a very
old school—welcome the appearance
of the grim folio. In citing from
it the decision of Hepburn <em>contra</em>
Hepburn, 14th March 1639, even
the courageous M. Michel subjoins:
“<span lang="fr">Si j’ai bien compris le text de cet
arrêt conçu dans un langue particulière.</span>”
This peculiar arrêt begins
as follows:—“The brethren
and sisters of umquhile Colonel
Sir John Hepburn having submitted
all questions and rights
which they might pretend to the
goods, gear, and means of the said
umquhile Sir John, to the laird
Wauchton and some other friends,
wherein the submitters were bound
and did refer to the said friends to
determine what proportion of the
said goods should be given to
George Hepburn, the son of the
eldest brother to the said Sir John,
which George was then in France at
the time of the making of the said
submission and bond, and did not
subscribe the same, nor none taking
the burden for him; upon the
which submission, the said friends
had given their decreet arbitral. The
living brethren and sisters of the
said Sir John being confirmed executors
to him, pursues one Beaton,
factor in Paris, for payment of 20,000
pounds addebted by him to the said
umquhile Sir John, who, suspending
upon double poinding,” &#38;c.</p>

<p class='c012'>Perhaps we have said enough to
exemplify the dauntless nature of
M. Michel’s researches. It is impossible
to withhold admiration
from such achievements, and we
know that, in some quarters, such
are deemed the highest to which
the human intellect can aspire.
But we confess that, to our taste,
the results of M. Teulet’s labours
are more acceptable. True, he does
not profess to give the world an
original book. He comes forward
as the transcriber and editor of
certain documents; but in the
gathering of these documents from
different quarters, through all the
difficulties of various languages and
alphabets, in their arrangement so
as to bring out momentous historical
truths in their due series, and in
the helps he has afforded to those
who consult his volumes, he has
shown a skill and scholarship which
deserve to be ranked with the
higher attainments of science. We
had formerly an opportunity of
paying our small tribute to M.
Teulet’s merits when we referred
to his supplemental volume to Labanoff’s
Correspondence of Queen
Mary.<a id='r9'></a><a href='#f9' class='c015'><sup>[9]</sup></a> Among not the least valued
of the contents of our book-shelves,
are six octavo volumes containing
the correspondence of La Mothe
Fénélon, and the other French ambassadors
to England and Scotland
during the latter years of Queen
Elizabeth’s reign, for which the
world is indebted to M. Teulet’s
researches. The immediate merit
of the book, the title of which is
referred to at the beginning of this
article, is, that it is now at the
command of the public. It is indeed
a reprint, with some additions,
of the papers—at least all that are
worth having—which were previously
an exclusive luxury of the
Bannatyne Club, having been printed
in three quarto volumes, as a gift
to their brethren, by certain liberal
members of the Club. These
papers go into the special affairs
of this country as connected with
France and Spain from the beginning
of our disputes with our
old ally down to the accession of
James VI. In the hands of the
first historian who has the fortune
to make ample use of them, these
documents will disperse the secluded
and parochial atmosphere that
hangs about the history of Scotland,
and show how the fate of
Europe in general turned upon the
pivot of the destinies of our country.
It is here that, along with
many minor secrets, we have revealed
to us the narrow escape
made by the cause of Protestantism,
when the project on the cards
was the union of the widowed
Queen Mary to the heir of Spain,
and the political combinations still
centring round the interests and
the fate of the Queen of Scots,
which led to the more signal and
renowned escape realised in the
defeat of the Armada.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_355'>355</span>
  <h2 class='c002'>KINGLAKE’S INVASION OF THE CRIMEA.<a id='r10'></a><a href='#f10' class='c015'><sup>[10]</sup></a></h2>
</div>

<p class='c016'>Seven years ago, when the war
with Russia was about to end—was,
in fact, already virtually ended—and
when the war-fever of the English
had been abated by copious
blood-letting, and by the absence
of further stimulant to hostility
since Sebastopol had ceased to
resist, people were already talking
about the future history of the
strife. It seemed to be agreed that
the public, which had so eagerly
swallowed all the information it
could get, and snapped at all the
opinions which floated so thickly
on the stream of current history,
was for the present glutted with
the subject, and that to offer it any
more Crimean information, however
cunningly dressed, would be like
fishing with a May-fly for a July
trout. On the other hand, the
subject seemed to be essentially
one of contemporary importance.
It had not the elements which gave
lasting interest to the Peninsular
war. It had developed no great
reputations in which the nation
could for the future undoubtingly
confide. It had left us victorious
over no great conqueror. Its memorials
were not such as we should
choose to dwell on; for though the
nation was very proud of the early
triumphs of the Alma and Inkermann,
still the later course of the
struggle had been, though successful
in its end, yet disastrous and
gloomy in its progress, and had
left, partly through the more brilliant
share which our allies took
in the final action, but principally
through the forebodings of our
own press, a sense of comparative
failure. Mr Kinglake comes upon
the stage at a fortunate time. The
weariness of the subject, once felt,
has disappeared, while the strong
contemporary interest in the actors
remains. That interest is national
in the sense of being fixed, not on
a few great objects, but on a great
number of inferior objects connected
with the war. It is not so
much patriotic as domestic. The
graves of Cathcart’s Hill, the
trenches filled with dead, the burial-grounds
of Scutari, have a strong
though softened hold on innumerable
hearts. Everywhere in England—in
remote parishes, in small
communities, in humble households—remembrance
of the great features
of the struggle is kept alive by
the presence of those who survived
it. A strong conviction that French
manœuvring was not entirely directed
against the enemy, and that
a fair scrutiny would leave us more
reason for self-satisfaction than at
first appeared, has long been afloat.
And a succession of great conflicts
in which we have been strongly
interested has schooled us in military
doctrines, and has rendered us
better able to appreciate the operations
of armies than we were either
at the beginning or the end of the
Crimean war.</p>

<p class='c012'>If the time for the history is
happily chosen, so is the historian.
Few men who have written so little
have so established their reputation
as Mr Kinglake. His ‘Eothen,’
immensely popular at first, has settled
into an English classic. It is
full of interest, full of remarkably
vivid descriptions, full of original
writing; and though the style does
not reject effects which a very pure
taste would condemn, yet it possesses
the eminent merits of vigour,
condensation, and richness. In the
fulness of the fame thus earned,
Mr Kinglake accompanied the army
to the Crimea. The scenes of the
war consequently possessed for him
a reality which no reading, no imagination,
no second-hand description
can impart. He had seen
the Euxine covered with the vast
flotilla of the Allies. He had set
foot on the hostile coast at the
same time as the combined armies.
He had accompanied them in their
compact advance, when their columns
seemed but spots and patches
in the vast circle of sea and plain.
His own eyes had beheld the battle
of the Alma, and the signs of
death and suffering that remained
next day to mark the phases of
the struggle. And when afterwards
he came to record the incidents of
the war, though no individual observation
could embrace all the details,
there was always present with
him the invaluable power which
personal knowledge confers, to define,
to affirm, or to reject. And as
it was soon understood that he intended
to write the history of the
war, he, in his double capacity of
approved author and actual spectator,
became almost, as a matter
of course, the depositary of a vast
amount of information connected
with the subject, oral and documentary,
private and official. He
had a large acquaintance with the
political as well as the military
actors in the drama. Few men,
then, could have had so free access
as he to the materials of which the
history must be wrought.</p>

<p class='c012'>Moreover, he had shown in his
former work that he possessed another
qualification for his task.
History cannot be written at a heat.
Patient inquiry, long meditation,
the fortitude necessary for the abandonment
of convenient conclusions
too hastily come to, are all indispensable
to success. But with this
pursuit of the necessary details,
unity of effect, as numberless failures
have shown, is almost incompatible.
Now, Mr Kinglake had
given remarkable proof that he
could bestow a microscopic attention
on particulars without sacrifice
of breadth. It is generally believed
that he spent nine years in bringing
the single volume of ‘Eothen’
up to the standard of his own fastidious
taste. The sarcastic advice
of Pope to an aspiring author—“Keep
your piece nine years”—had
been literally accepted, but with a
result very different from that which
the adviser anticipated. Instead of
becoming dissatisfied with a work
looked at after a long interval and
with changed feelings, Mr Kinglake
proved that he could not only
“strike the second heat”—the process
which Ben Jonson says is so
necessary for the forging of ideas
into happy forms of expression—but
that he could bring his thoughts
again and again to the intellectual
smithy to be recast and shaped
without finding the fire extinct.
Here, then, was evidence of a quality
most valuable to one who must
long and patiently grope amid masses
of evidence and details, sometimes
conflicting, often worthless,
and yet retain freshly the power of
throwing the selected results into
a form clear, harmonious, and striking.</p>

<p class='c012'>We have thus broadly stated some
of Mr Kinglake’s eminent qualifications
for his task, and a detailed
notice of his work will necessarily
include others. And it is easy to
believe that he might have selected
a variety of subjects, his execution
of which would have insured unqualified
praise. But for the present
task, as might have been seen
before he commenced it, his fitness
was marred by one circumstance.
His political course had proved that
his animosity towards the French
Emperor amounted to a passion, or,
as those who did not care to pick
their words might say, a mania. It
might be guessed beforehand, therefore,
that the Emperor would scarcely
meet with fair play at his hands.
And considering the share taken by
that personage in the events which
Mr Kinglake had undertaken to record,
to misrepresent his policy or
his doings would be to distort the
history. Any one who entertained
such a misgiving must have found
it strengthened when, on glancing
over the table of contents, he perceived
that nearly a quarter of the
first volume, amidst what purports
to be a record of the “transactions
that brought on the war,” is occupied
with an account of the <i><span lang="fr">coup
d’état</span></i> which substituted an empire
for a republic in France. On reading
the volume his suspicions would
inevitably be converted into certainty.
More than that, indeed, for he
would find that his anticipations
were far exceeded by a satire so
studied, so polished, so remorseless,
and withal so diabolically entertaining,
that we know not where in modern
literature to seek such another
philippic. Had Mr Kinglake contrived
in this chapter to have completely
relieved his feelings and
have been contented with flaying
the Emperor and thus have done
with him, leaving him to get
through the rest of the book as naturally
and comfortably as he could
be expected to do without his skin,
we might consider it as an episode
which we should have been at liberty
to set apart from the main
purpose of the work. But like
King Charles I., whom David Copperfield’s
friend, Mr Dick, never
could keep out of his memorial, this
diabolical caricature of despotism
haunts the narrative at every turn.
The canvass is spread, the palette is
laid, the artist is at his easel full of
his subject—all the great personages
of the time are to figure there,
and great incidents are to form the
background. The spectator is at
first charmed with the progress of
the design; but presently, amidst
the nobly-drawn portraits, there
is a sketch of a monarch with
cloven feet appearing beneath his
robes, and a tail curling under his
throne; and whereas the rest of
the picture is in true perspective,
all that relates to this figure has a
separate horizon and point of sight.
The result is as if Gilray in his
bitterest mood had got into Sir
Joshua’s studio and persuaded him
to let their fancies mingle in one
incongruous work.</p>

<p class='c012'>We have thus stated our one
point of difference with the author
of these fascinating volumes. With
this exception we have little to do
but to praise—and indeed, as a
piece of writing, we have nothing
to do but to praise the work from
beginning to end. How materials
in many respects so unpromising
could be made so interesting, is
marvellous. Many a reader who
remembers what a tangled skein of
politics it was that led to the war—many
a soldier who has a confused
recollection of a jumble of Holy
Places, and the Four Powers, and
Vienna Conferences, and who would
be glad to know what it was he was
fighting about, now that it is all
over—will take up these volumes
as a duty, and will be surprised to
find that the narrative approached
in so resolute a frame of mind, is
more easy to read and more difficult
to lay down than the most popular
of the popular novels.</p>

<p class='c012'>The dispute about the Holy
Places, though not in itself in any
appreciable degree the cause of the
war, was the introduction to the
events that led to hostilities. There
is something almost ludicrous,
something more befitting the times
of Philip Augustus and of Cœur de
Lion than those of Louis Napoleon
and Lord Palmerston, in the idea
of great European potentates appearing
as the backers of two denominations
of monks, who were
quarrelling about the key of a
church-door in Palestine. Nevertheless,
the Czar, as the chief of a
people whose passions were strongly
aroused by the dispute, had a real
and legitimate interest in the matter.
To suppose that the President
of the French Republic, or any section
of the people over whom he
presided, really cared whether the
Greek or the Latin Church had the
custody of this important key, would
be absurd. But the President it was
who opened the question by advocating
the claims of the Latins.
His object in doing so is by no
means clear. Mr Kinglake accounts
for it by saying, “The French President,
in cold blood, and under no
new motive for action, took up the
forgotten cause of the Latin Church
of Jerusalem, and began to apply
it as a wedge for sundering the
peace of the world.” Now, that
Louis Napoleon was desirous of
disturbing the peace of the world,
is Mr Kinglake’s argument throughout.
It is to his book what the
wrath of Achilles is to the ‘Iliad;’
and he tells us that the reason for
this truculent desire was to prop
up the French Empire. But that
reason, though it may plausibly
explain the acts of the French Emperor,
does not account in the least
for the acts of the French President.
We presume Mr Kinglake hardly
wishes us to infer that Louis Napoleon
sowed the seeds of war during
his Presidency, as provision for
the possible necessities of a possible
Empire. Yet the historian’s
theory would seem to demand the
inference.</p>

<p class='c012'>The poor Sultan, meanwhile, who
might well exclaim ‘A plague o’
both your Churches!’ was the unwilling
arbiter of this dispute between
his Christian subjects, and
was urged by the great champion
on each side to decide in favour of
his protégé. Who might have the
key, or whether there was any key
at all, or any sanctuary at all, or
any Greek or Latin Church, was to
this hapless potentate a matter of
profound indifference. The French
envoy put on the strongest pressure,
and the Sultan inclined to the side
of the Latins; the Russian minister
thereupon squeezed from him a
concession to their adversaries;
and between the two he managed,
as might be expected, to disgust
both sects, and to anger the Czar
without satisfying the Emperor.
The displeasure of Nicholas was extreme,
and he prepared to support
his further arguments by marching
a large army towards the Turkish
frontier. And the first use of this
force was to give momentum to the
mission of Prince Mentschikoff, who
was sent to Constantinople as the
organ of his Imperial master’s displeasure.
The selection of the envoy
showed that the Czar wished
to take the most direct and violent
course to the fulfilment of his aim;
for the Prince’s diplomacy was of
that simple kind—the only kind he
seemed capable of employing—which
regards threats as the best
means of persuasion.</p>

<p class='c012'>These strong measures were the
first indications that war was possibly
impending. And as they appeared
to spring from the religious
fervour of the Czar, which had been
roused to this pitch by the gratuitous
intermeddling of Napoleon in
the question of the Holy Places, it
would at first seem as if it were
indeed the French ruler who had
first blown the coal which presently
caused such a conflagration. But
in the interval between the decision
of the Sultan about the churches,
and the appearance of Mentschikoff
at Constantinople, Nicholas had held
with Sir Hamilton Seymour the remarkable
conversations which explain
the real designs cloaked by the
religious question. In these interviews
he uttered his famous parable
of “the sick man,” representing
that the Turkish Empire was dying,
and might fall to pieces any day,
and proposing that the event should
be provided for by an immediate
arrangement for dividing the fragments.
Provided he had the concurrence
of England, the Czar would
not, he said, care what any other
Powers might do or say in the
matter.</p>

<p class='c012'>Here then was a foregone conclusion
plainly revealed. The religious
ire of the Czar, the movement of
his troops, the mission of Mentschikoff,
were all to be instruments for
hastening the dissolution of the
sick man, and appropriating his domains.
It was no new idea; for
Nicholas was but following the traditionary
policy of his house. And
if it could be believed that his expectations
of the speedy collapse of
the Turkish Empire were real, it
would be unjust to blame him for
wishing to profit by the event. We
are too apt to judge of the policy
of other Governments by the interests
of England, and to condemn
as unprincipled what is opposed to
our advantage. Nevertheless, to a
ruler of Russia, no object can appear
more legitimate than the possession
of that free outlet to the world,
which alone is wanting to remove
the spell that paralyses her gigantic
energies. Looking from the shores
of the Euxine, she is but mocked
by the vision of naval glories and
of commercial prosperity; but let
her extend her limits to the Bosphorus
and the Dardanelles, and
no dreams of greatness can be too
splendid for her to realise. But
there is no proof that the Czar’s
anticipations respecting Turkey
were grounded on anything more
solid than his strong desire to render
them true. In fact, the forecast
of the Czar is much the same
as that of Mohammed Damoor, as
described in ‘Eothen:’ who, having
prophesied that the Jews of Damascus
would be despoiled on a particular
day, took steps to verify
his prediction by first exciting
and then heading the mob of
plunderers.</p>

<p class='c012'>The reply of England to his overtures
satisfied him that he could
not hope for her complicity in his
design upon Turkey. Had it been
otherwise, the sick man would, no
doubt, have been so cared for that,
sick or well, there would soon have
been an end of him. But the Czar
perceived he must for the present
forego his desire for the vineyard
of Naboth. Yet there were several
reasons why he should still draw
what profit he could from the present
opportunity. He had a pretext—an
indifferent one it is true,
but still it was more convenient to
use it than to look for another. He
had been at the trouble of military
preparations, and was naturally desirous
that they should not be barren
of result. And, in the matter
of Montenegro, Turkey had just
succumbed to him so readily on a
threat of war, that it seemed very
unlikely he should ever find her in
a better frame of mind for his purpose.
Therefore, though the sick
man was reprieved, yet he was not
to go scot-free; and Mentschikoff
was charged, while ostensibly urging
the Sultan to reconsider the
question of the Holy Places, to keep
in reserve a demand of much deeper
significance.</p>

<p class='c012'>Scornful in demeanour and imperious
in language, Mentschikoff
entered Constantinople more like
the bearer of a gage of defiance
than a messenger of peace. His
deportment startled the Divan out
of its habitual calm; and the British
Chargé d’Affaires, at the instance
of the Turkish Ministers, requested
our Admiral at Malta to move his
squadron into the Levant. This
demand was not complied with;
but the French fleet was ordered to
Salamis. And this movement is
condemned by Mr Kinglake as most
impolitic; for it happened, he says,
at a time when “the anger of the
Emperor Nicholas had grown cool,”
and it “gave deep umbrage to Russia.”
From which he means us to infer
that Louis Napoleon, following
his deep design of fanning the flame
of discord when it should seem to
languish, was so timing the advance
of his fleet as to neutralise the pacific
influences which had begun to
have their sway.</p>

<p class='c012'>Now what are the circumstances
of the case? The French Emperor
knew nothing of the conversation
with Sir Hamilton Seymour, which
did not transpire till long afterwards.
Neither he nor the British
Government were aware of the
Czar’s real demands. Ostensibly the
matter of controversy was still the
original question between him and
the Czar concerning the Holy Places.
And while one of the disputants,
France, had urged her views in the
ordinary way by the mouth of her
ambassador, her opponent was preparing
to coerce the arbiter by a
menacing mission backed by an
army and a fleet. The army already
touched the frontier, the fleet was
prepared to sail for the Bosphorus.
Will anybody except Mr Kinglake
blame the French Emperor for
sending his fleet to Salamis? or say
that he was bound, before taking
such a step, to consider whether it
might not give deep umbrage to
Russia?</p>

<p class='c012'>Mentschikoff then proceeded to
urge his demands. These were,
that, in addition to the concessions
required respecting the Holy Places,
the Sultan should, by treaty with
the Czar, engage to confirm the
Christian subjects of the Porte in
certain privileges and immunities.
Though the Sultan was very willing
to confirm them in these privileges,
he was by no means willing to bind
himself by treaty with the Czar to
do so; for by so doing he would
give the Czar a right, as a party to
the treaty, to see that it was fulfilled;
and hence those who were
to benefit by the privileges would
naturally regard most, not him who
granted them, but him who could
compel their observance. In fact,
it was virtually conferring on the
Czar the protectorate of the Sultan’s
Christian subjects.</p>

<p class='c012'>It was while the Turkish Ministers
were in the deepest embarrassment
between the consequences of
listening to such a proposition on
the one hand, and the fear of offending
the Czar by refusing to entertain
it on the other, that Lord Stratford
appeared on the scene. The coming
of the British Ambassador, and the
diplomatic duel that ensued between
him and Mentschikoff, where
predominant influence in the Sultan’s
counsels was to be the prize
of the victor, forms one of the most
brilliant passages in this brilliant
book. The mere presence of the
Ambassador of England restores the
Sultan and his Ministers to complete
self-possession. When Mentschikoff
blusters, they refresh themselves
by a view of Lord Stratford’s
commanding aspect; when the Russian
menaces war, they are comforted
by a hint from the Englishman respecting
the English squadron. Of
such dramatic excellence is this
portion of the story, that the enthralled
reader forgets to inquire
how it was that in a dispute between
France and Russia respecting
the subjects of Turkey, the Ambassador
of England should be the
foremost champion. But we see
him throughout as the power that
moves the Mussulman puppets, and
from whose calm opposition the
menaces of Mentschikoff recoil harmless;
and we see in distant St
Petersburg the great Czar himself
lashed to fury at feeling himself
foiled by one whom he has long,
we are told, considered as a personal
foe. We cannot but feel proud
in these circumstances of the position
of our representative, though
it would be difficult to say, perhaps,
what advantage besides this feeling
of pride we, as a nation, derived
from it. But it is clear that, while
the Czar was dreaming, as of something
possible to be realised by a
great display of power, of a protectorate
over the Christian subjects
of the Porte, here was a British
protectorate of the most absolute
character already established over
the Porte and its subjects, Christian
and Mussulman; and we might
almost infer that nothing further
was requisite on Lord Stratford’s
part but to humour Mohammedan
prejudices by submitting to a few
insignificant religious rites, in order
to qualify him for at once taking
his place as Chief of the Ottoman
Empire, and the true Commander
of the Faithful.</p>

<p class='c012'>In the diplomatic encounter,
Mentschikoff had no more chance
than the fiend in a moral tale of
<em>diablerie</em>, who urges weak man to
sign his soul away after the good
angel has come to the rescue.
Baffled at all points, he departs with
all the diplomatic train, muttering
vengeance. And here ends the
first act of the drama, when the
pretexts of the Czar have vanished,
and he shows his true design. The
next begins with the crossing of
the Pruth by the Russian forces, in
order to secure the material guarantee
of the Danubian provinces.
But the menacing position of Russia
was not the only change in the
situation. England, who in the
earlier dispute had no more interest
than the other Western Powers in
opposing Russia, had in the progress
of the controversy made herself so
prominent that she was, in the
judgment of Lord Clarendon, bound
to defend the provinces of the Sultan
against an unprovoked attack
by Russia. That she had laid herself
under this obligation was entirely
owing to the lofty part which
Lord Stratford had played in the
drama. On the other hand, had
Lord Stratford not been so ready
and conspicuous in his championship,
the Divan, feeling itself unsupported,
might have yielded to
the demands of Russia.</p>

<p class='c012'>For a great part of the narrative,
then, the principal positions have
been occupied by England, Russia,
and Turkey; and the interest imparted
to scenes which, from an
ordinary hand, would have been
eminently tedious, is wonderful.
But at this juncture, King Charles
I., who has long been impending,
can no longer be kept out of the
memorial. The iniquitous machinations
of the French Emperor are
brought into the foreground. The
occasion for enlarging on them is
that which we shall presently state.
But first we must say that it is
from no wish to dilate on what we
think the blemish of the book that
we expatiate on this theme. It is
because it is mixed up with all the
main parts of a work which we are
bound to treat as an authentic history.
But it happens that, for
a reason to be noted hereafter, we
can, without injury to the texture,
separate this portion from the rest;
and we therefore propose to follow
this thread of the narrative to its
end, and so, having done with it,
to be at liberty, for the rest of these
volumes, to approve no less warmly
than we admire.</p>

<p class='c012'>Austria naturally felt considerable
interest in the movements of a
formidable neighbour, whose troops
were now winding round her frontier,
who, by overrunning Turkey,
would enclose some of her provinces,
and who, at the next step in
advance, would control the Lower
Danube. She therefore, in conjunction
with Prussia, made common
cause with the Western Powers,
so far as to offer a strong remonstrance
against the occupation of
the Danubian provinces, and to
join in their efforts to preserve
peace. Mr Kinglake contends
that this kind of pacific pressure
would have secured its object, and
that if it had not, Austria would
have joined France and England in
having recourse to sterner measures.
But he says that, without waiting
for the result of this joint coercion,
England was persuaded to join
France in a separate course of
action, which, without necessity,
involved us in a war desired only
by the French Emperor. “In order
to see how it came to be possible,”
says the historian, “that the
vast interests of Europe should be
set aside in favour of mere personal
objects, it will presently be necessary
to contract the field of vision,
and, going back to the winter of
1851, to glance at the operations of
a small knot of middle-aged men
who were pushing their fortunes in
Paris.”</p>

<p class='c012'>And here is interpolated—for as
an interpolation we regard it—that
curious episode which has for its
subject the <i><span lang="fr">coup d’état</span></i> and the
establishment of the second French
Empire. Standing apart from the
purpose of the book, its isolation
gives it peculiar distinctness. But
its inherent character is such that it
needs no art or accident to bring it
into strongest relief. It is a singularly
clever and singularly acrimonious
attack upon the foremost statesman
and most powerful potentate
of these times. And it makes demands
on our credulity which are too
heavy for anything short of absolute
proof to maintain. For we are asked
to believe that a set of men with no
more character or consideration than
Falstaff and his associates, were
able to call on the French nation
to stand and deliver, and that the
nation thereupon submitted to be
knocked down, to have its throat
cut, and to be plundered by these
minions of the moon. Now, does
anybody think that diadems, such
as that of France, are to be stolen
from a shelf by any cutpurse who
wants to put them in his pocket?
Or does anybody think that a mere
cutpurse, having succeeded in the
theft, could so have worn his stolen
diadem as to enhance its splendour
and renown? That which made
the Empire possible, and that which
maintains it now, was the conviction
that the choice of the nation
lay between it and Red Republicanism.
And to establish, in any
degree, his case, Mr Kinglake
should have proved that no such
conviction existed. But if it be true
that France found in the Empire
a refuge from anarchy, then reasonable
men will not be ready to scrutinise,
in too severe a spirit, the means
taken to consolidate the throne.
Granted that the army, the instrument
employed by the President,
disgraced itself by an indiscriminate
and unprovoked slaughter—that
the opposition of political adversaries
was silenced in a very
arbitrary fashion—that a foreign
war would probably be necessary
for the security of the new dynasty,—yet
will it be said that a result
which has tranquillised France,
which has developed her resources
and exalted her reputation, leaves
in the establishment of the Empire
nothing except what the world
must regret and condemn? And
looking at the portrait which Mr
Kinglake has drawn, with so bold
and incisive a touch, of this potentate
of wooden face, base soul, and
feeble resolve, who turns green in
moments of danger—who, with the
aid of swindlers and bravoes, has
yoked France to his chariot, and
drives it in a career of blood with
the great Powers of Europe bound
to its wheels—we ask, not only is
it brilliant as a work of art, but
is it like the original? We do
not profess to believe that the
Empire is the perfection of government.
We do not maintain that
Louis Napoleon is a model of virtue
and disinterested policy. But if
his place in Europe were suddenly
vacant, will Mr Kinglake tell us
how it would be better filled, or
what precious things might not be
thrown into the gulf before it could
be closed? And if no answer can
be given to the question, we may
well doubt the expediency of contributing
to bring so important a
personage and so powerful an ally
into contempt.</p>

<p class='c012'>“After the 2d December in the
year 1851,” says Mr Kinglake, in
concluding the portion of his work
relating to the <i><span lang="fr">coup d’état</span></i>, “the foreign
policy of France was used for
a prop to prop the throne which
Morny and his friends had built
up.... Therefore, although I
have dwelt awhile upon a singular
passage in the domestic history of
France, I have not digressed.”
Now, even if he could prove the necessities
of the French Empire to
have been the main motive of the
part England took in the war, we
should still dispute this. No doubt
it is the business of the historian of
an important series of events to
trace them to their sources, and the
more clearly he can show the connection
hidden from ordinary minds,
the more sagacious and ingenious
he will appear. But if there were
no limit to this, the history of any
event might spread to an extent altogether
boundless; and therefore,
to justify digression, it is necessary
for the historian to show that the
incidents which led to the result
had a necessary and not an accidental
influence in procuring it.
For instance, in the case of a popular
uprising against a despotism or
a superstition, it would be expected
that the historian should trace all
the successive steps by which the
national feelings were roused from
suffering to resistance, because
those steps led inevitably and naturally
to that particular result, and
not to any other. In such a case
history is performing her proper
function of explaining, for the guidance
of posterity, the obscure process
by which certain conditions
produce certain effects. But where
a war has been caused by the caprice
and unreasoning anger of a
potentate, it is beside the purpose
to trace up to his very cradle the
effect of early mismanagement or
neglect in rendering him passionate
or capricious, for no political lesson
can be taught where results cannot
be calculated. In such a case it
will be sufficient to state the fact,
that the war originated in the irascible
temper and unaccountable
impulse of one who had the power
to give his anger such tremendous
vent. It would be absurd to pause
in the history, and to introduce his
biography, merely to prove that it
is a bad thing when great power is
lodged in the hands of a person
who is the slave of violent caprice.
And in the present instance, if it
had been stated in two sentences
that the conditions under which
the French Empire had started into
existence were such as to render a
foreign war, or a commanding position
in Europe, necessary to its
stability, the statement would have
fully satisfied the requirements of
history, and would have received
general assent.</p>

<p class='c012'>However, having considered it necessary
to prove this proposition by
a separate history of the transition
which France underwent from a
republic to an empire, Mr Kinglake
undertakes to show how we
were dragged into war by this necessitous
Emperor. He asserts
many times that the operations of
the French and English fleets caused
the war.</p>

<p class='c017'>“The English Government,” he says,
“consented to engage in naval movements
which affected—nay governed—the
war.” And again, “The French
Emperor had no sooner engaged the
English Government in a separate understanding,
than he began to insist upon
the necessity of using the naval power
of France and England in the way which
he proposed—a way bitterly offensive to
Russia. Having at length succeeded in
forcing this measure upon England, he
after a while pressed upon her another
movement of the fleets still more hostile
than the first, and again he succeeded
in bringing the English Government to
yield to him. Again, and still once
again, he did the like, always in the end
bringing England to adopt his hostile
measures; and he never desisted from
this course of action, until at last it had
effected a virtual rupture between the
Czar and the Western Powers.”</p>

<p class='c016'>And in this way throughout these
transactions the Emperor plays a
part much the same as that which
Satan took in the scenes in Paradise;
and at every turn we see him
moving deviously, quite serpentine
in craft and baseness, or squatting
toad-like at the ear of the slumbering
British Government, till now,
at the Ithuriel touch of history, he
starts up in his true form of malignant
demon.</p>

<p class='c012'>The various items of the present
charge against him are collected by
Mr Kinglake in a compendious
form:—</p>

<p class='c017'>“Not yet as part of this narrative,
but by way of anticipation, and in order
to gather into one page the grounds of
the statement just made, the following
instances are given of the way in which
the English Government was, from time
to time, driven to join with the French
Emperor in making a quarrelsome use
of the two fleets:—On the 13th of July
1853, the French Emperor, through his
Minister of Foreign Affairs, declared to
the English Government that if the occupation
of the Principalities continued,
the French fleet could not longer remain
at Besica Bay. On the 19th of August
he declared it to be absolutely necessary
that the combined fleets should enter
the Dardanelles, and he pressed the English
Government to adopt a resolution to
this effect. On the 21st of September
he insisted that the English Government,
at the same moment as the French,
should immediately order up the combined
squadrons to Constantinople. On
the 15th of December he pressed the
English Government to agree that the
Allied fleets should enter the Euxine,
take possession of it, and interdict the
passage of every Russian vessel. It will
be seen that, with more or less reluctance
and after more or less delay, these
demands were always acceded to by England:
and the course thus taken by the
maritime Powers was fatal to the pending
negotiations; for, besides that in
the way already shown the Czar’s wholesome
fears were converted into bursts of
rage, the Turks at the same time were
deriving a dangerous encouragement from
the sight of the French and English war-flags;
and the result was, that the negotiators,
with all their skill and all
their patience, were never able to frame
a Note in the exact words which would
allay the anger of Nicholas, without encountering
a steadfast resistance on the
part of the Sultan.”</p>

<p class='c016'>We have only, then, to take in
their turn the items thus enumerated
to ascertain the justice of the
charge. The first of the naval movements
was the advance of the fleets
to Besica Bay. This made the
Czar very angry. But it was in itself
a perfectly lawful operation,
and quite consistent with friendliness
and desire for peace. It by
no means balanced the aggressive
advance of the Czar into the Principalities
and the orders to the Sebastopol
fleet. Moreover, however
irritating to Nicholas, he condoned
it, for we find him long afterwards
accepting the Vienna Note framed
by the four Powers, the acceptance
of which by Turkey would have
settled the dispute. That it was
not accepted by Turkey was due
entirely to Lord Stratford and the
Turkish Ministers. “The French
Emperor,” says Mr Kinglake, “did
nothing whatever to thwart the restoration
of tranquillity.” It is
evident, then, that the movements
of the fleets thus far had produced
no effect which was not completely
neutralised, and that the Emperor’s
desire for war did not prevent him
from contributing to the general
effort for peace.</p>

<p class='c012'>The next movement of the fleets
was into the Dardanelles. The
Sultan was engaged by treaty to
forbid the entrance of the fleets of
any Power so long as he should be
at peace. What, then, were the reasons
for entering the Straits? Were
they purely provocative? Now, we
find that the demand for war on
the part of the Turkish people had
at this time become so urgent, that
the Ambassadors to the Porte regarded
it as almost irresistible. The
French Ambassador viewed it, Mr
Kinglake says, “with <em>sincere</em> alarm.”
He wrote a despatch to his Government,
imparting to it what we must
admit to have been also “sincere
alarm,” for there is no evidence or
insinuation of the contrary; and
that alarm being shared by our
Government, the fleets were ordered
to enter the Dardanelles that
they might be ready, if wanted, to
support the Turkish Government
against the belligerent wishes of its
own subjects.</p>

<p class='c012'>But another important circumstance
had occurred before the
entry of the fleets. In invading
the Principalities, the Czar had announced
that this was not meant as
an act of war. And the Sultan’s
hold on these provinces was of such
an anomalous kind that his advisers
held him to be at liberty to construe
the invasion as an act of war,
or not, at his own pleasure. He
had now given notice to the Czar
that unless the Russian troops
should quit the Principalities in
fifteen days he would declare war.
Fourteen of the fifteen days had
elapsed when the fleets entered.
Except for observing the strict
letter of the treaty, it was not of
the least importance whether they
entered a day sooner or later. Yet
Mr Kinglake tells us the Czar was
very indignant at the violation of
the treaty, and he laments that another
day was not suffered to elapse
before the movement. Now, considering
all the circumstances—that
the fleets had already been for a
long time at the disposal of the
Ambassadors, who might summon
them to Constantinople whenever
they judged necessary, and that the
Czar knew it—that war steamers
had already been called up to the
Bosphorus by both the Ambassadors,
French and English, and the
treaty thus broken as completely as
by the passage of a hundred fleets—that
the Czar had himself, by the
invasion of the Principalities, deprived
himself of the right to complain
of the violation of the treaty—that
fifteen days’ notice of a declaration
of war had been given,
and that the full term must have
expired before the fleets could arrive
at Constantinople—considering all
this, the provocation is reduced to
such an infinitesimal quantity, that
it is barely worth a passing mention.
There is no evidence whatever
that the prospects of peace
were in any way affected by the
advance of the fleets. Yet a hasty
reader of Mr Kinglake’s narrative
might easily imagine that it produced
the direst consequences. “When the
tidings of this hostile measure,” he
says, “reached St Petersburg, they
put an end for the time to all prospect
of peace.” And again—</p>

<p class='c017'>“The Czar received tidings of the
hostile decision of the maritime Powers
in a spirit which, this time at least, was
almost justified by the provocation given.
In retaliation for what he would naturally
look upon as a bitter affront, and
even as a breach of treaty, he determined,
it would seem, to have vengeance
at sea whilst vengeance at sea was still
possible; and it was under the spur of
the anger thus kindled that orders for
active operations were given to the fleet
at Sebastopol. The vengeance he meditated
he could only wreak upon the body
of the Turks, for the great offenders of
the West were beyond the bounds of his
power.”</p>

<p class='c016'>Would not the reader imagine
from this that the attack of Sinope
had been proved by full evidence to
be the immediate result of the exasperation
of the Czar at the advance
of the combined fleets? But Mr
Kinglake acquaints us in a note
with the real grounds on which he
makes this confident assertion:—</p>

<p class='c017'>“This conclusion is drawn from dates.
The hostile resolution of the Western
Powers was known to the Czar a little
before the 14th of October, and about
the middle of the following month the
Black Sea fleet was at sea. If allowance
be made for distance and preparation, it
will be seen that the sequence of one
event upon the other is close enough to
warrant the statement contained in the
text. In the absence, however, of any
knowledge to the contrary, it is fair to
suppose that the Czar remembered his
promise, and did not sanction any actual
attack upon the enemy unless his commanders
should be previously apprised
that the Turks had commenced active
warfare.”</p>

<p class='c016'>We read this note with surprise.
It proves that Mr Kinglake can,
when in hot pursuit of the foe, step
to a conclusion over grounds where
few can follow. The fleets entered
the Dardanelles on the 22d October.
The attack of Sinope took place on
the 30th November. The Turks
and Russians had been at war for
six weeks; and though the Russian
Minister had announced in a circular
some time before, that the
Czar, in hopes still of a peaceful
solution, would remain on the defensive
as long as his dignity and
interests would allow, yet, as Mr
Kinglake himself says, “After the
issue of the circular, the Government
of St Petersburg had received
intelligence not only that active
warfare was going on in the valley
of the Lower Danube, but that the
Turks had seized the Russian fort
of St Nicholas on the eastern coast
of the Euxine, and were attacking
Russia upon her Armenian frontier;”
and he fully absolves the
Czar from any breach of faith in
this matter. Yet he would gravely
have us believe that the attack of
the ships of one Power upon those
of another with which it is at open
war requires explanation, and that
the most natural explanation possible
is to be found in attributing
it to a slow retaliation for an imaginary
injury inflicted by two other
Powers. It is as if we should be
told that, in the early rounds of a
celebrated pugilistic encounter, Mr
Sayers had hit Mr Heenan very
hard in the eye, not because they
were fighting, but because one of
the bystanders had previously trodden
on the champion’s coat.</p>

<p class='c012'>As the reader will probably decline
to follow Mr Kinglake over his
slender bridge of inference, we must
look beyond Sinope for the naval
movement instigated by the French
Emperor and turning the scale in
favour of war; and, as only one remains
to be accounted for, we have
not far to look. The next orders
sent to the fleets were intended to
obviate another disaster and disgrace
such as that of Sinope. They
provided that Russian ships met
with in the Euxine should be requested,
and, if necessary, constrained,
to return to Sebastopol.
This, Mr Kinglake terms “a harsh
and insulting course of action.”
He says the English Cabinet during
their deliberations “were made
acquainted with the will of the
French Emperor;&#160;... the pressure
of the French Emperor was
the cogent motive which governed
the result;&#160;... the result was that
now, for the second time, France
dictated to England the use that
she should make of her fleet, and
by this time, perhaps, submission
had become more easy than it was
at first.” But Lord Clarendon has
been quoted by Mr Kinglake as
saying, months before, that it had
become the duty of England to defend
Turkey. According to Mr
Kinglake, when independent Powers
are acting together, to propose is to
dictate, and to acquiesce is to submit.
To make a suggestion is imperious,
and to adopt it is ignominious.
But what kind of an alliance
would this be? or how would concert
be possible under such circumstances?
The proposal of the
French Emperor was so offered as
to show that he was thoroughly
convinced of its expediency. If he
was so convinced, he was right so to
offer it. And why did the English
Ministry adopt it? Because the
English people more than kept
pace with the wishes of the Emperor.
“A huge obstacle,” says the
historian, “to the maintenance of
peace in Europe was raised up by
the temper of the English people;&#160;... the English desired war.” It
is strange doctrine then, that an
English Ministry which, by assenting
to the proposition of an ally,
expresses the temper of the English
people, thereby submits to foreign
dictation.</p>

<p class='c012'>But the strangest part of the
French part of the story is behind.
We have seen how Mr Kinglake
traces from the first the devious
wiles of the French Emperor—how
it was his craft that first made
the question of the Holy Places
important—how his “subtle and
dangerous counsels” hurried England
into war, and all because war
was necessary to the stability of his
throne. The complicated texture
of his intrigue is followed and
traced with immense patience and
ingenuity; and yet, when the work
is complete, and his imperial victim
stands fully detected and exposed
as the incendiary of Europe,
the detective suddenly destroys his
own finely-spun web at a blow.
England was the tool of the French
Emperor, but the French Emperor
was the tool of a still more astute
and potent personage. “When the
Czar began to encroach upon the
Sultan, there was nothing that could
so completely meet Lord Palmerston’s
every wish as an alliance between
the two Western Powers,
which should toss France headlong
into the English policy of
upholding the Ottoman Empire....
As he (Lord Palmerston)
from the first had willed it, so
moved the two great nations of the
West.” The elaborated structure
of French intrigue falls, and our
gay perennial Premier is discovered
smiling amid the ruins. Thus Punch
murders his wife and infant, hangs
the executioner, and shines as the
dexterous and successful villain, till,
at the close of the piece, Mr Codlin,
the real wire-puller, draws aside
the curtain and appears at the bottom
of the show, while the great
criminal and his victims revert to
their proper condition of sawdust
and tinsel.</p>

<p class='c012'>The terms of the alliance between
France and England are surely not
difficult to understand. The policy
of upholding the Ottoman Empire
was, as Mr Kinglake says, “an
English policy.” The object for
which the Governments of France
and England were actively united
was an English object. Naturally
we inquire what inducement the
Emperor had then to form the
alliance? Mr Kinglake furnishes
us with the correct response. It
seemed, he says, to the Emperor
“that, by offering to thrust France
into an English policy, he might
purchase for himself an alliance
with the Queen, and win for his
new throne a sanction of more lasting
worth than Morny’s well-warranted
return of his eight millions
of approving Frenchmen. Above
all, if he could be united with England,
he might be able to enter upon
that conspicuous action in Europe
which was needful for his safety at
home, and might do this without
bringing upon himself any war of a
dangerous kind.” The advantages
of the alliance were to be reciprocal.
The Emperor was to gain in
position and reputation, in return
for aiding with his fleets and armies
the attainment of an English object.
Mutual interest and mutual compromise
were the basis of this, as of
most alliances. We had not to accuse
the Emperor of any breach of
faith in executing his part of the
compact. Being already, as Lord
Clarendon said, committed to the
defence of Turkey, it made a vast
difference to us whether we should
enter on a war with Russia alone,
or should be aided by the immense
power of France. And it was only
fair that the Emperor should be allowed
to occupy, in the transactions
which ensued, that position,
the attainment of which was his
grand object in seeking the alliance.
Yet Mr Kinglake blames this
necessitous potentate because he did
not sacrifice his position and himself
to our interests—because he did not
chivalrously place his army and navy
at our service for the promotion of
English policy, and remain quietly
in the background, with his generous
feelings for his reward; and he
blames our own Government for
making those compromises which
alone could render the alliance possible.</p>

<p class='c012'>And here, we rejoice to say, our
serious differences with Mr Kinglake
end. After so much entertainment
and instruction as we have
derived from his book, it seems
almost ungrateful to make to it so
many exceptions. But if we have
occupied much of our space thus,
he must remember that it takes
longer to argue than to acquiesce.
Moreover, it is partly owing to his
own excellences that we have been
able to find matter for dispute.
Many a writer would have so muddled
his facts and his prejudices
that we should have found it hard
to do more than suspect the presence
of error in the cloudy medium.
But his style is so clear, so
precise, that the reasoning everywhere
shines through, and a fallacy
or an inconsistency has no
more chance of escaping detection
than a gold fish in a crystal aquarium.
And besides, Mr Kinglake
himself most honestly and liberally
furnishes us with the facts, and
even the inferences, necessary to
rectify his theory. Thus the effect,
in his history, of his hostility to
the Emperor is not that of a
false proportion in a rule of three,
which extends and vitiates the
whole process. It is only like a
series of erroneous items introduced
in a sum in addition, which
may be separated and deducted,
leaving the total right.</p>

<p class='c012'>The course of the transactions
that led to the war may then be
traced as clearly as diplomacy,
dealing with many great interests
and many unseen motives, generally
permits. The squabble about
the Holy Places was not the origin
but only the pretext of the dispute
with Turkey. The conversations
with Sir Hamilton Seymour and
the mission of Mentschikoff prove
that the Czar was already seeking
to dislocate the fabric of the Turkish
Empire, and only took that lever
because it lay readiest to his hand.
“A crowd of monks,” says Mr
Kinglake, in his picturesque way,
“with bare foreheads, stood quarrelling
for a key at the sunny gates
of a church in Palestine, but beyond
and above, towering high in
the misty North, men saw the ambition
of the Czars.” But the real
design could not long be hidden by
the pretext. And the execution of
that design would be subversive of
that balance which it was the duty
and interest of the other Powers to
maintain. It was for the Czar, then,
to choose a time for his project when
he might find each of the other
Powers restrained by some counteracting
motive from opposing his
ambition. Looking over Europe,
he thought that he perceived the
favourable moment. Austria, the
Power most interested from her contiguity,
and from the importance to
her of free use of the great waterway
of Southern Germany, if she
had much reason to resist, had also
much reason to acquiesce. She still
felt too keenly, financially and politically,
the effects of the heavy blows
dealt her in 1848–9 to be ready or
willing for war. She was under a
huge debt of gratitude to Nicholas,
who, in the hour of her direst necessity,
had advanced to save her,
without condition and without reward.
He possessed, too, a great
personal ascendancy over the young
Emperor of Austria. And, lastly,
at this time Austria had a hostile
altercation with Turkey, which
would render it more than ever
difficult for her to take part with
the Sultan.</p>

<p class='c012'>It might be calculated that Prussia
would follow the lead of Austria.
Her interests were the same
in kind, but far less in degree.
Once satisfied that full guarantees
for the freedom of the Danube
would be given, she would no
longer have special interest in the
subject.</p>

<p class='c012'>As to France, there seemed to be
no special reason why she should
interfere. And if she should interfere,
the Czar’s sentiments towards
the new Empire were such as
would rather lead him to disdainful
defiance than conciliation.</p>

<p class='c012'>At first he anticipated no difficulty
in persuading the English
Government to join in his designs.
Finding, however, by the rejection
of his overtures, that he could not
hope for the support of England,
he probably postponed the extreme
measures of aggression. But, for
the reasons we have stated in a
former paragraph, he was unwilling
to let the opportunity pass totally
unimproved; and hence the demands
of Mentschikoff for granting
the protectorate of the Greek
Church in Turkey to the Czar.</p>

<p class='c012'>It was Lord Stratford’s share in
the diplomatic contest that ensued,
which first gave England prominence
in the dispute. And whether
the part he took was in accordance
with instructions from his Government,
or was due to the influence
of his personal character, the result
was to assure England that the predominance
of her Ambassador in the
councils of the Porte, whatever advantage
it might confer, carried
with it grave responsibility. When
Mentschikoff withdrew in anger
from the scene, England was, in
the opinion of her own Ministers,
committed to the defence of Turkey.</p>

<p class='c012'>We have seen that the Czar’s
original design was made dependent
on the concurrence of England.
When he found that this
was unattainable, the design was
modified. He now found that even
in this modified form England
would not only not concur, but
would oppose it. Why then did
he persist? It was because he did
not believe that the opposition of
England would go the length of
war.</p>

<p class='c012'>Lord Aberdeen, the English
Premier, besides being the personal
friend of Nicholas, and therefore
disposed to view Russian policy
with comparative indulgence, was
the open and professed friend of
peace at any price. He had that
horror of war which in a statesman
is an unpardonable and fatal weakness.
And in this particular he
was believed only to represent the
feeling of the English people. The
Czar, in common with most of the
world, was convinced that they
were entirely absorbed in the pursuit
of commerce. He took the
Exhibition of 1851 for the national
confession of faith. He believed
that England had no god but gold,
and that Mr Cobden was her prophet.</p>

<p class='c012'>This fallacy Mr Kinglake exposes
in his happiest style:—</p>

<p class='c017'>“All England had been brought to
the opinion that it was a wickedness to
incur war without necessity or justice;
but when the leading spirits of the Peace
Party had the happiness of beholding
this wholesome result, they were far
from stopping short. They went on to
make light of the very principles by
which peace is best maintained, and
although they were conscientious men,
meaning to say and do what was right,
yet, being unacquainted with the causes
which bring about the fall of empires,
they deliberately inculcated that habit
of setting comfort against honour which
historians call ‘corruption.’ They made
it plain, as they imagined, that no war
which was not engaged in for the actual
defence of the country could ever be
right; but even there they took no rest,
for they went on and on, and still on,
until their foremost thinker reached the
conclusion that, in the event of an attack
upon our shores, the invaders
ought to be received with such an effusion
of hospitality and brotherly love as
could not fail to disarm them of their
enmity, and convert the once dangerous
Zouave into the valued friend of the
family. Then, with great merriment,
the whole English people turned round,
and although they might still be willing
to go to the brink of other precipices,
they refused to go further towards that
one. The doctrine had struck no root.
It was ill suited to the race to whom it
was addressed. The male cheered it,
and forgot it until there came a time
for testing it, and then discarded it;
and the woman, from the very first,
with her true and simple instinct, was
quick to understand its value. She
would subscribe, if her husband required
it, to have the doctrine taught to
charity children, but she would not
suffer it to be taught to her own boy.
So it proved barren.”</p>

<p class='c016'>Caustic as this is, it is only too
indulgent to the Peace Party. Not
that it is of special importance now
to crush what is already so depressed
and abased as to have lost its
power of mischief. The course of
the leaders of the party has been
such that they could not continue
to enjoy any large measure of popularity,
except upon the anomalous
condition that a great number of
Englishmen should join in hating
England. For years past no petulant
despotism, no drunken republic,
could shake its coarse fist in the
face of this country, without finding
its warmest supporters in those
men of the olive branch, who were
never weary of urging us to offer
both cheeks to the smiter. Their
mode of interference in a quarrel is
like that of the affectionate friends,
who, if a man were attacked, would
cling round him and hamper him,
reviling him for his pugnacity,
while his adversary ran him through
the body. Long fallen from their
position as oracles, they lie at the
base of their tall pedestals, and
“none so poor as do them reverence.”
But, in granting them honesty
of purpose, Mr Kinglake falls,
we think, into the now common
error of pushing candour to excess.
A man’s mistakes are honest when
he is led into them by motives irrespective
of his interests. The fanatic
who sacrifices his own advantage
along with that of other people
cannot be accused of baseness. But
these men had a direct interest in
preaching the doctrine of the necessity
of national poltroonery. The
substitution of a purely commercial
policy for that which the nation had
hitherto followed, was intimately
blended with their own personal
advantage. The motive, therefore,
that inspired the error renders it
inexcusable.</p>

<p class='c012'>Blind, then, to consequences, the
Czar continued his course of aggression.
He marched his troops
into the Principalities. Thereupon,
no longer opposed only by England,
he finds himself met by the concerted
action of the four great
Powers. And the question of interest
at this particular stage is,
Whether the primary object of defending
Turkey was to be best attained
by the action of the four
Powers, or by the increased decision
in action of England and
France. Now it is to be observed,
that the Czar knew long before he
occupied the Principalities that
Austria would resist the step. Yet
the united remonstrance of the four
Powers had failed to induce him to
abandon it. And it also failed
afterwards to induce him to retract
it. Through remonstrance,
opposition, and the earlier stages of
the war, he continued to hold the
provinces. It becomes then a question,
when we are considering the
statement that the peaceful pressure
of the four Powers would
have attained our object in the most
desirable way, whether a course of
action so slow was consistent with
our engagement to defend Turkey.
It is a matter at least open to
doubt.</p>

<p class='c012'>But granting that either the slow
action of Austria, or the more decisive
policy of France, would have
equally availed, if adopted by common
consent, was that unanimity
possible? Austria had many reasons
for limiting her interference to
diplomatic pressure. Moreover, her
ground of complaint against Russia
was the occupation of the Principalities,
not the threatening of Turkey.
Should Russia adopt some
other method of coercing Turkey,
such as sending her fleet into the
Bosphorus, and withdrawing her
troops from the provinces, the interest
of Austria in the dispute
would almost vanish, while that of
the Western Powers would increase.
And how would it suit France to
adopt the course of Austria, and to
aim at a settlement by united action?
The French Emperor’s great
inducement in joining in the dispute
at all was the prospect of increased
reputation. And when the
figure representing the credit to be
gained by joint diplomatic coercion
came to be divided by four, would
the quotient satisfy his expectations?
It is not too much to say
that England was compelled to
choose between France and Austria,
since it was unlikely they would
long continue in a common course.
And as the action of England in
a war with Russia must be principally
through her fleet, it became
of immense importance that the
French navy should act with us
rather than be neutral or hostile.
In such circumstances, then, it is
by no means clear that we did
wrong in holding with France.</p>

<p class='c012'>From this period, then, it becomes
apparent that, if Russia
should persist in aggression, war
was inevitable. And Russia did
persist in aggression. And if it
be considered as established that
the Czar was led so to persist by
a conviction that England would
not resort to war—which is the
general and probably correct opinion—we
do not see how it can
be denied that a course of action
which must undeceive him would
be the most likely to cause him
to desist; and that the naval
movements that ensued were only
such as would convince him of our
intention without driving him to
extremity. It is plain that the
two theories—one of which is that
the pacific disposition of our Government
allowed us to drift into
war, and the other that our menacing
action irritated the Czar beyond
control, and therefore caused the
war—are incompatible.</p>

<p class='c012'>The fleets then moved to the
entrance of the Dardanelles; and,
while the Czar was recovering from
the anger produced by that step,
the representatives of the four
Powers in conference at Vienna
produced their Note, a mediatory
document which would, it was hoped,
settle all difficulties. It was
readily accepted by Russia, the
reason for which became apparent
when it was offered to Turkey; for
the Turkish Government at once
rejected it, on the ground that it
might be so interpreted as to secure
to the Czar the protectorate he aimed
at. They proposed alterations, with
the concurrence of the mediatory
Powers, which the Czar in his turn
rejected; and the Sultan thereupon
declared that, if the provinces were
not evacuated in fifteen days, Turkey
would be at war with Russia.
The fleets moved through the Dardanelles.
The next step was the
attack on the Turkish squadron at
Sinope by the Russian admiral.
The English people were now thoroughly
roused. They were indignant,
not so much at the breach of
faith imputed to the Czar in making
the attack, as at the ruthless destruction
and slaughter of the Turkish
force by its far more powerful
enemy. The attack, too, had taken
place almost under the guns of the
combined fleets, and it was evident
that, if their presence at Constantinople
meant anything, and if we
really were engaged to defend Turkey,
the repetition of such a disaster
to our ally must be prevented.
A measure to this effect, but by no
means strong enough to express
the feeling of England, was adopted;
the combined fleets were ordered
by their respective governments to
keep the peace by force, if necessary,
in the Euxine. But as there
had been as yet no actual collision
between their forces and those of
the Czar, a door to peace was still
left open. Of this he did not
choose to avail himself, but declared
war against France and England
on the 11th April 1854.</p>

<p class='c012'>Such is an outline of the successive
events preceding the war which,
unpromising as such a record of
futile diplomacy may seem, Mr
Kinglake has wrought into one of the
most brilliant of historical pictures.
‘Eothen’ itself is not more entertaining,
more rich in colour, more
happy in quaint and humorous
turns of expression; while, from
the false effects that are sometimes
seen in the earlier work, the present
narrative is entirely free. The style
is indeed a model of ease, strength,
clearness, and simplicity. Nor has
labour been spared; and the reader
who has so often been expected by
historians to be already familiar with
political and diplomatic lore, and has
been left to repair his deficiencies
as he may, will be grateful to Mr
Kinglake for some of the elementary
instruction which he has conveyed
in such a delightful form, as, for
instance, the chapter on “the usage
which forms the safeguard of
Europe.” And remembering what
animation and vigour personal feeling,
even when so strongly biased,
cannot fail to infuse, and seeing
that, in the present case, it has not
prevented the writer from fully
stating the facts and deductions
which most contradict his favourite
theories, we cease to lament the
absence of that judicial calmness
which would have deprived his history
of half its charm.</p>

<p class='c012'>The first glowing scenes now
shift to one still more splendid.
Diplomacy has played out its part;
its subtlest essays seem but mere
babble to the ear that is listening
for the impending clang of arms.
Statesmen and ambassadors gather
up their futile documents, and retire
to the side scenes, to make
way for the sterner disputants who
throng the stage.</p>

<p class='c012'>If Mr Kinglake was unsparing
in his denunciations of French intrigue,
he is no less bold and outspoken
in criticising the military
merits of our allies. But we no
longer find the same reasons for
dissenting from his conclusions.
Many, no doubt, will say that it
would have been politic to suppress
some of those revelations which
will jar most on the sensitive ears
of our neighbours. But, if history
is to be written at all, it must be
written with all the truth attainable.
History, which conceals and
glosses, is but historical romance.
Moreover, a plain English statement
was wanting to redress the balance
between us and the French. It
must not be forgotten that the example
of writing a narrative apportioning
to both parties in the alliance
the sum of glory gained was set in
France, and that a share, ridiculously
small, was awarded to the English.
We remonstrated at the time,
in these pages, against the unfairness
and impolicy of allowing such
a book as De Bazancourt’s to go
forth to the world with the seeming
sanction of the Emperor, at a time
when the war was yet unfinished.
A man of no reputation or ability
to justify the selection had been
accredited to the French generals
in the Crimea. Furnished thus with
information, which might be presumed
to be reliable, he produced a
narrative in which the entire credit
for the planning and execution of
the successful operations of the war
was assigned to the French with
impudent mendacity. As might
naturally be expected from a nation
that believes in Thiers, his account
was accepted by the French
as veritable history. In England
it was but little read. Contemptible
as a composition, its representations
of facts were not such as to
give it a claim to which nothing
else entitled it. But, so far as it
was read here, it gave just offence.
That the Emperor did not disapprove
is shown by the fact that the
same valuable chronicler was taken
to Italy as historiographer of the
war in 1859, when another compound
of bombastic glorification
and misrepresentation was given to
the world under imperial auspices.
No Englishman or candid Frenchman
who reads the account of the
Crimean Campaign by the Baron
De Bazancourt will deny that it
was incumbent on us to tell our
own tale; and we rejoice that it is
told by one who, with such remarkable
faculty for charming an audience
and imparting to it his own
impressions, trusts, nevertheless, to
facts and proofs derived from the
documents intrusted to him, for
supporting his claim for justice.</p>

<p class='c012'>The long European peace had left
the armies of the Great Powers
with little except a traditional
knowledge of civilised war. It is
true that part of the English army
had seen service in India; a large
portion of the French troops had
made campaigns in Algeria; and
the Russians had for years carried
on a desultory warfare in Circassia.
But none of these theatres of operations
had been of a kind to serve
as schools of training for encounters
with a disciplined foe. Nor
had they developed amidst the
officers that high talent for superior
commands to which either country
could turn with confidence. Accordingly,
the English fell back
upon their traditions of the old
wars of Wellington, as embodied in
his friend Lord Raglan. Whether
he was likely to make a great general
or not, it was impossible for
anybody to say, for his career had
not been such as to offer any field
for the display of the talents requisite
in a commander. Sixty-six
is not perhaps the most favourable
age for a first essay in any walk in
life. But it was known that he
was accustomed to military business;
that his conciliatory and courteous
manners would be of great
service in an allied army, and that
his rank and dignity would ensure
the respect necessary for the maintenance
of our proper position in
the alliance; while, if he had
not commanded armies himself,
he had been intimate with him
whom we regarded as the commander
without a peer. The
French had no available relics of
the wars of the First Empire; and
if any such had existed, there
were other claimants to be considered,
namely, those soldiers of
fortune to whom the Emperor was
under obligations for their share in
the <em><span lang="fr"><span lang="fr">coup <a id='t372'></a>d’état</span></span></em>. The claims of St
Arnaud surpassed all others. He
was a frothy, vainglorious, gallant
man, who had never shown capacity
for any operation more considerable
than a raid against the Arabs. His
published letters breathe a high
ambition and spirit of enterprise,
but do not reveal any rare military
quality. Lord Russell himself could
not be more ready to take the lead
in any description of onerous undertaking.
But his self-confidence
seems to have had no deeper root
than vanity; for, whereas his letters
to his relations are full of the great
part he is playing, or means to play,
neither his acts, nor the official records
of his doings as Commander
of the French army, corroborate the
views of his own pre-eminence
which he imparted to his family.
Mr Kinglake drily accounts for the
selection of this commander by saying
that he was ambitious of leading
the enterprise, and that “the
French Emperor took him at his
word, consenting, as was very natural,
that his dangerous, insatiate
friend, should have a command
which would take him into the
country of the Lower Danube.” If
it is by this intended we should infer
that the wily potentate expected
the climate to disagree with him,
the anticipation was fulfilled; for a
frame already weakened by long
disease broke up entirely under the
assault of the fever of Varna. The
Russians possessed a fine old remnant
of antiquity in Prince Paskiewitch,
which was furbished up, and
did very well till, meeting with a
mischance before Silistria, at the
outset of the war, he vanished, and
the effort to supply his place with a
creditable general was not successful.
As regards military talent,
then, it would not seem that either
belligerent possessed an advantage
which would preclude Fortune from
exercising her proverbial function
of favouring the brave.</p>

<p class='c012'>While the English and French
troops were on the way to Turkey,
the Russians had opened an offensive
campaign. The method of doing
this was prescribed to them by
the features of the theatre of war. The
Danube, flowing round Wallachia,
turns northward and meets the
Pruth, so as to include between the
two rivers and the sea a narrow
strip; the part of which, north of
the Danube, is a Russian province,
Bessarabia, and that south of the
Danube a Turkish province, the
Dobrudja. Should the Russians
seek to pass into Turkey through
Wallachia, they would lend a flank to
an attack from Austria, if she were
to carry her hostility to the point of
war, and their troops would be very
critically placed between Austrian
and Turkish foes. But by advancing
along the strip the Russians
passed at once from Russian to
Turkish territory; while the Danube
covered their right flank from Austria.
Still, in order to proceed beyond
the Dobrudja in the direction
of the Balkan, and thence towards
Constantinople, as they had done
with such signal success in 1829, it
was indispensable that they should
begin by taking Silistria—and more
than ever indispensable now that
the Allies had command of the
Euxine. Accordingly, the opening
of the campaign was marked by the
siege of Silistria by the Russians.</p>

<p class='c012'>Although it soon appeared that
Silistria was bravely defended, it
was not expected that the fortress
could hold out long. And therefore,
in anticipation of such decisive
movements as those of 1829, the
first intention of the Allies was to
fortify Gallipoli, thus securing the
Dardanelles as a channel of supply,
and the Chersonese peninsula as a
secure base from whence to operate
in Turkey. But it soon appeared
that Russia was stumbling at the
first obstacle. Gallipoli, therefore,
ceased to be of present importance;
and the next idea was to transport
the armies to that point from
whence they could most speedily
meet the enemy. And that point
was evidently Varna.</p>

<p class='c012'>Mr Kinglake chronicles two facts
relating to this period, not hitherto
published, and the knowledge of
both of which he probably derived
(certainly of one) from Lord Raglan’s
papers. The first is the project
of St Arnaud to obtain command
of the Turkish forces. How
this was defeated is recorded in
one of Mr Kinglake’s most characteristic
passages, where the lively,
pushing, aspiring Marshal finds his
confidence in his own scheme suddenly
evaporating before the grave
dignified courtesy of Lord Stratford,
and the mildly implied disapproval
of Lord Raglan. The other
is, that, after the embarkation was
agreed on, St Arnaud suddenly announced,
that he should move his
army by land to the south of the
Balkan; and that, according to his
plan, the English should take the
left of the proposed strategical line,
and therefore be farthest from their
supplies coming from sea. This
scheme, also, he relinquished; but
the fact is notable, first, as showing
the propensity to take what
advantage he could at the expense
of his ally; and secondly, as correcting
the view of his own predominance
and superior earnestness
for action, conveyed in his private
correspondence and in De Bazancourt’s
narrative.</p>

<p class='c012'>The armies landed at Varna, and
a campaign in Bulgaria was expected.
“My plan is,” quoth St
Arnaud, “to save the fortress, and
to push the Russians into the
Danube.” He tells his brother in
Paris, that the operation of moving
to aid Silistria will be hazardous,
for the Russians may come down
on his right and rear, seize the
road of Varna and Pravadi, and
cut him off from the sea. “But, be
easy,” he says consolingly, “I have
taken my precautions against the
manœuvre, and I will defeat it.”
Not difficult to defeat, one might
think, since the enemy who should
attempt it must be commanded by
a lunatic. However, while the
Allies were still waiting in vain for
the means of transport to take the
field, their difficulties and projects
were ended by an unlooked for
incident. The Russians, finding
the outermost barrier of Turkey
impregnable, raised the siege, and
withdrew across the Danube. The
immense amount of military reputation
which they thereby lost was
placed with interest to the credit
of the Turks. But the position in
which the Allied Generals found
themselves, thus hurrying to save
a fortress which saved itself, and
left without an enemy, was extremely
bewildering. St Arnaud
seems characteristically to have
imagined that the Russians were
frightened by his reputation into
retreat. “They fly me,” he says,
while lamenting the loss of a triumph
for himself and his army,
which he had contemplated as certain.
Not only the Generals but
their Governments were embarrassed
and mortified at being thus
baulked. The Emperor’s object
could not be attained by mere success
without glory. The British
people, already impatient of delays,
the causes of which, though
inevitable, they could not understand,
were clamorous for action.
Nor did they content themselves
with insisting that something
should be done. They indicated
the line of action. Urged, as
Mr Kinglake contends, by the
press, they shouted with one voice
for an attack on Sebastopol, and
this measure the Government enjoined
Lord Raglan to execute.
The French Government did not
urge St Arnaud to propose the
step; but, if the English were willing
for it, he was not at liberty to
withhold his consent. Two questions
occur here: was the Government
right in thus ordering the
commander of the army to take a
step to which his own judgment
might be opposed? and was the
step thus indicated a wise one?</p>

<p class='c012'>Now, Mr Kinglake seems to
think, that if the Government was
justified in controlling its General,
it was only because its army was
acting in concert with that of
another power, and was dependent
on the aid of the fleets.</p>

<p class='c017'>“In common circumstances, and especially
where the whole of the troops to
be engaged are under one commander,
it cannot be right for any Sovereign or
any Minister to address such instructions
as these to a General on a distant shore;
for the General who is to be intrusted
with the sole command of a great expedition
must be, of all mankind, the best
able to judge of its military prudence,
and to give him orders thus cogent is to
dispense with his counsel.”</p>

<p class='c016'>We, on the other hand, think
that the selection of the territory
which is to be the scene of operations,
should always rest with the
Government, and for this reason,
that the selection must depend even
more on political than on military
considerations. Suppose, for instance,
that the Allied generals had
desired to follow the enemy over
the Danube, it is evident that it
would be of vast importance in
the campaign that would follow,
whether Austria should be friendly,
or neutral, or hostile. But which
she would be was a matter of which
the Generals could only be informed
through their Governments, who
must possess the best information
attainable on the subject. And
again, the effect of the invasion of
the Crimea on Austrian counsels,
on Russian designs, and on English
and French interests, were all political
considerations, to be decided
by the Governments, and not by
the Generals. But, the territory
fixed on, the manner of operating
therein should be left to the Commander—and
this the British Government
did.</p>

<p class='c012'>With regard to the other question,
Mr Kinglake appears to think
that, after the Russians had evacuated
the Principalities (as they
did immediately on re-crossing the
Danube), there was no further
ground for continuing the war, and
that a naval blockade would have
forced her to conclude peace. But
to have forced her to make peace,
returning to the <em>statu quo</em>, would
by no means have answered our
ends, for it would have left her to
repeat the aggression on a more
favourable opportunity, with the
advantage of better understanding
the conditions of success. That
she would have consented at that
time to give any pledge for the security
of Turkey, is incredible, if
we consider the course taken by
her diplomatists at the conferences
in the following year, when she had
suffered so severely. But to capture
Sebastopol and its fleet, would
give us the security we wanted, and
the pressure of the blockade might
then be depended on for ending
the war. The question then, in our
judgment, resolves itself into this:
Was there a reasonable hope of at
once succeeding in the object of the
invasion; and was common foresight
exercised in providing for the
possibility of failure?</p>

<p class='c012'>Events have answered the last
question. Due provision was not
made for the possibility of a first
failure. The country was aghast
at the position in which the army
found itself; and we think that,
in making the statement we are
about to quote, Mr Kinglake is recording
a state of opinion, which,
though perfectly just, and always
maintained to be just in these pages,
both during and after the war, had
no existence at the time he speaks
of.</p>

<p class='c017'>“Those who thought more warily
than the multitude foresaw that the enterprise
might take time; but they also
perceived that even this result would not
be one of unmixed evil; for if Russia
should commit herself to a lengthened
conflict in the neighbourhood of Sebastopol,
she would be put to a great trial,
and would see her wealth and strength
ruinously consumed by the mere stress
of the distance between the military
centre of the empire and the south-westernmost
angle of the Crimea.”</p>

<p class='c016'>All this is true; so true that
Russia would have done well to
leave Sebastopol to its fate, rather
than make those efforts to maintain
it which were so ruinous. Moreover
the Crimea is, from its geographical
circumstances, always the
most favourable point of Russian
territory for the operations of an
enemy who commands the sea. Its
form of an extended peninsula
renders it vulnerable at many
points; it does not afford the
means of supplying the force necessary
for its defence; and the supplies
and reinforcements, having
to pass through a region that is always
a desert and sometimes a
swamp, must be despatched with
vast expense and loss. The conditions
of the theatre of operations
selected were then all in our favour;
it only remained to provide adequately
for the chances of war, to
render the enterprise judicious.</p>

<p class='c012'>But there was no thought except
of speedy success. Beyond a
triumphant landing, battle, and
assault, no man looked. It was a
piece of national gambling where
an army was staked upon the turn
of the cards; inexcusable, therefore,
even had the chances been
still more in our favour.</p>

<p class='c012'>Still the chances in our favour
were great. The Russian force in
the Crimea was inferior in numbers.
Sebastopol might have been captured
with the co-operation of the
fleets. That co-operation was a
main element of success. We were
deprived of it by Mentschikoff’s
stroke of sinking his ships, so as to
block the harbour and exclude the
fleets. Was this a step, the possibility
of which the Government of
a great maritime nation ought to
have omitted from its calculations?
It was not difficult—it was even
obvious—to anticipate that a fleet
otherwise useless might thus be
turned to account.</p>

<p class='c012'>That the invasion was politically
a fortunate step, we have no doubt.
All the sufferings, all the losses, all
the expense, and all the discontent
at home, could not prevent the
course of affairs from turning ultimately
to our advantage, because
the distresses of the enemy were far
greater. Russia at the end of the
war was absolutely prostrate, while
England was only beginning to
handle her vast and increasing resources.
But this, as it was never
contemplated, is beside the purpose
of estimating the wisdom of the
people and the Government who
committed the armies to the enterprise.
The Government is obnoxious
to the charge of not providing
for a contingency that ought to
have been foreseen, by furnishing
the means for sustained operations.
And the Government might, in
great measure, exonerate itself at
the expense of the nation. For
years before, no Member of Parliament
could have proposed an increase
on the estimates in order to
render the army an efficient engine
of war, without being covered with
obloquy. At that time, what troops
we had were barely tolerated by the
people. Considering all things, we
cannot think the step wise. But we
are very strongly of opinion that, as
a means of coercing Russia, it was
fortunate.</p>

<p class='c012'>Many conferences between the
Allied Generals took place at Varna,
and on the voyage. No pictures
can differ more widely than those
of the attitude of St Arnaud on
these occasions, as drawn on the
one hand by himself and De Bazancourt,
on the other by Mr Kinglake.
In his own letters, and in the veracious
French Chronicle, he is the
moving spirit of the enterprise—he
“dominates the discussion”—he
infuses life into everybody—nothing
checks him except the slowness
of the English. He is feared
by the Russians, admired by the
British, adored by the French. Mr
Kinglake, on the contrary, represents
him as being in council without
decision and without weight; glad
to solve his own difficulties by deferring
to Lord Raglan; forming
plans merely to abandon them;
and painfully conscious that he has
not the hold on the respect of his
own army necessary to enforce his
authority. He had become strongly
impressed with the idea that a
landing would be best effected at
the mouth of the Katcha. It would be
nearer Sebastopol. The position on
the Alma would thus be avoided; and
the march over plains, where it might
be difficult to find water, would be
unnecessary. On the other hand
a reconnoissance made by Lord
Raglan and Sir John Burgoyne,
with the French Generals, showed
that the mouth of the valley was
narrow, that the troops as they
landed would be exposed to a flanking
fire from guns which would be,
by their position, secure from the
counter-fire of the ships, and that
the enterprise might be opposed by
the whole Russian army. These
objections seemed to Lord Raglan
so strong that he decided on landing
at Old Fort. The result showed
the correctness of the decision, for
the landing was unopposed, and
the single action of the Alma
cleared the way to Sebastopol.
Nevertheless, St Arnaud, writing
to his brother after the landing,
contends that he was right. “Observe,
brother,” he says, “I have a
military instinct which never deceives
me, and the English have
not made war since 1815.”</p>

<p class='c012'>Mr Kinglake’s account of the disembarkation
which he witnessed, of
the delay caused by the mysterious
shifting, by the French, of the buoy
that was to mark the spot for the
operation—of the different modes of
treating the villagers practised by
the English and by the French
troops, and of the march towards
the Alma, are described with the
particularity and vivacity which
might be expected from so keen an
observer, and so skilful a narrator.
He rightly describes the movement
as being of the nature of that proper
to movable columns. It was, in fact,
like the march of a convoy, where
the escort was vast, and the conditions
favourable. The conditions
were favourable, because the open
nature of the country permitted the
waggons, instead of straggling along
a great extent of road, on any part
of which they might be attacked,
to move in compact order near the
entire army. But we quite agree
with him in thinking that the Russian
leader showed great incapacity
and culpable want of enterprise in
suffering the march to proceed unmolested.
The country was particularly
favourable to cavalry, in
which arm he was greatly superior.
By incessantly threatening the left
flank he would have compelled us
to show front in that direction, and
the whole army would have been
obliged to halt, under penalty of
witnessing the defeat of a separated
portion. We could not have closed
with the force thus menacing us,
because the effort to do so would
have withdrawn us from our proper
direction, and from the sea, and because,
also, the enemy could always
retire under cover of his cavalry, to
a new position on our flank. If
Mentschikoff could have felt secure
of being able to file into position
behind the Alma, in time to oppose
us there, he might have employed
his whole army in this menacing
movement. He made only one
effort of the kind, that on the Bulganak,
where a skirmish took place;
but the demonstration was feeble,
not supported, and of no avail as a
check, because the army had always
designed to halt there for the night.
Nevertheless, the precautions taken
by Lord Raglan, in throwing back
the left flank, before bivouacking,
to meet a possible attack of the
kind, and the consequent delay in
resuming the march next morning,
show how much was to be apprehended
from such a mode of harassing
us as was open to a skilful
leader.</p>

<p class='c012'>The ground on which the battle
of the Alma was fought is not difficult
to understand. The plain over
which the Allies advanced slopes
gently downward for a mile. At
the bottom of the slope is a bank,
and below the bank a flat valley,
three or four hundred yards wide,
in which flows the Alma. If, then,
a person turning his back to the
sea, at the mouth of the river, moves
up the Allies’ bank, he has on his
right, across the valley, for the first
mile, a steep cliff, as if part of the
coast-line had turned back along the
course of the river. The cliff then
begins to resolve itself into broken
heights, still steep, but not impracticable.
These continue for nearly
two more miles, when, the heights
receding still farther, the slope to
the river becomes more gentle, and
undulates in knolls, the general
character of the ground, however,
being an upper and lower line of
heights, with an intermediate plateau.
The ground continues of this
nature far up the stream. Everywhere
the last summits formed the
edge of a plain which could not be
seen from the Allies’ side of the
stream.</p>

<p class='c012'>The Russian cavalry prevented
reconnoissances which would have
given some assurance of the manner
in which Mentschikoff occupied the
position. In the absence of these,
maps and plans, and a distant view,
coupled with a rough estimate of
the enemy’s force, were all that
could be relied on. With such data
as these afforded, Marshal St Arnaud
came to confer with Lord
Raglan the night before the battle;
and we must say that we think Mr
Kinglake is rather hard upon the
Marshal in his description of the
interview. He seems to think there
was something presumptuous in the
fact of his coming with a prepared
plan, bringing with him, too, a
rough sketch of it drawn on paper.
Now, that such a conference was
highly necessary between two commanders
about to fight a battle in
concert, nobody will deny. And it
is a very good thing, on such occasions,
to have a plan constructed on
the probabilities, because it serves
as a basis for discussion. The Marshal’s
plan was founded on the conjecture,
that, as the plain at the top
of the cliff could be swept by the
guns of the ships, a space would be
left near the sea unoccupied by the
Russians. Into that space he proposed
to push two divisions (Bosquet
and the Turks), by two roads
that led to it up the cliff. The remaining
divisions were to advance
against the Russian front; and he
calculated that they would occupy
so much of that front that the
movement of the British, forming
the left of the Allies, would be
against the right flank of the enemy.</p>

<p class='c012'>Such was the plan that the Marshal
brought to discuss with Lord
Raglan. But it seems that if he
came with the hope of getting any
suggestions or ideas in exchange, he
was disappointed. “Without either
combating or accepting the suggestion
addressed to him, he simply
assured the Marshal that he might
rely upon the vigorous co-operation
of the British army. The French
plan seems to have made little impression
on Lord Raglan’s mind.
He foresaw, perhaps, that the ingenuity
of the evening would be
brought to nothingness by the
teachings of the morrow.” And
when they came next day into
presence of the enemy, Mr Kinglake
says: “If Lord Raglan had
not already rejected the French
plan of a flank attack by our forces,
it would now have fallen to the
ground. It had never made any
impression on his mind.” In a
note he says: “It became a plan
simply preposterous as soon as it
was apparent that St Arnaud would
not confront any part of the Russian
army except their left wing; for to
make two flank movements, one
against the enemy’s left, and the
other against his right, and to do
this without having any force wherewith
to confront the enemy’s centre,
would have been a plan requiring
no comment to show its absurdity.”</p>

<p class='c012'>Now Lord Raglan’s part in the
interview is meant, as recorded, to
show to his advantage. Yet we
cannot think that this way of conducting
conferences can be considered
as displaying talent. Anybody
can appear to conceal an
opinion—even if he hasn’t got one.
The Marshal might, according to
this account, justly feel himself
aggrieved—first, for having no notice
taken of his plan; and, secondly,
for having no grounds afforded
for acting in concert with his ally
in the coming battle. Nor do we
think the plan absurd in principle,
though it was erroneous in details.
If to turn one flank of an enemy is
an advantage, to turn both flanks
will, in general, increase the advantage:
whether it is practicable depends
on the relative length of the
opposing lines. Now the Russians
had 39,000 men; the Allies had
63,000. And the English order of
battle enables our line to cover
more ground than equal numbers
of the enemy. Therefore, after
forming on an equal front, there
would still be at least 12,000 men
disposable for the turning of each
flank; and 12,000 men on your
flank is a serious matter. We say
then that the plan, which was, of
course, a suggestion, to be modified
according to circumstances, was not
in itself absurd in principle.</p>

<p class='c012'>The Marshal, therefore, with Lord
Raglan’s concurrence, as the French
say—but, according to Mr Kinglake,
with such expectations as he
might have derived from the foregoing
not very explicit interview—proceeded
to execute his part of the
plan by making his right column
pass close to the sea. This was an
error, for it was founded on a false
assumption; he supposed the Russian
left to be nearer the sea than
it really was. He could not ascertain
the truth, because, as is not
uncommon in battles, he could not
make a close reconnoissance, and
the plain behind the cliff, being
invisible from below, might contain
an unknown number of Russians.
A computation of the forces visible
would not give certain means of
judging of this point, because troops
had been joining Mentschikoff from
various parts—a large detachment
had come in that morning.</p>

<p class='c012'>The consequence, then, of this
error was that more of the French
line than had been expected overlapped
the Russians—so much so
that those on the extreme right
never joined in the action. Moreover,
they were on a narrower front
than their numbers warranted; for
though three divisions were in
front, and two following them, yet
the three in front formed two lines.
If the two in rear are to be considered
as a reserve, it was twice
as large as is common. Thus the
English only completed the front
necessary to correspond with the
Russian front without overlapping
it, and their attack, therefore, was
almost entirely a direct attack. The
right French column was thrown
away. The next to it only engaged
in a distant artillery fire: even the
third and fourth found themselves
opposed to a force inadequate to
their numbers. As Mr Kinglake
well observes, if all the army had
been of one nation, the direct attack
would not have been made till
that on the flank had already shaken
the enemy’s line. But circumstances
rendered it difficult to hold back
the English divisions. The French
did nothing to be proud of in the
battle. We perfectly agree with
Mr Kinglake that the official accounts
and that of De Bazancourt
are mere bombastic inventions. We
know that they were opposed by
numbers small in proportion to
their own. That some of their
divisions showed but little <em>elan</em> and
made small progress, was evident
during the battle. And with regard
to their losses, which St Arnaud
places at 1200, we do not
deny that they may have lost that
number of men that day; but if
they did, the cholera must have
been unusually severe on the 20th
September, for there were no signs
of such mortality on the battle-field.</p>

<p class='c012'>The English then advanced, because
the French demanded support,
and because it might not have
been judicious to remain longer inactive
when our allies were engaged.
Our divisions therefore advanced
across the river. In doing so their
order was broken by several causes.
First, the vineyards and enclosures
between the troops and the river;
then the river itself; and lastly,
the fact that the divisions in deploying
had, by mistaking distance, considerably
overlapped. It is evident
that if an inferior army about to be
attacked in position could choose
how the attack should be made, it
would desire that a great part of
the enemy’s force should be directed
where it would be useless, and
that the remainder should make a
direct advance. This was what the
Allies did. But though there was
no great generalship, the soldiership
of the English was admirable.
The divisional, brigade, and regimental
officers took advantage of a
sheltering rim of ground on the opposite
bank to restore some degree
of order in the broken ranks, and
then led them straight up the slope
in the teeth of the Russian guns.
Torn by cannon-shot at close range,
and by a hail of musketry from the
numerous infantry—for here Mentschikoff
had placed his heaviest
masses—they nevertheless went on
in a line which, if irregular, was
still irresistible, drove the Russians
back, and captured a gun. Then,
being without support, having lost
heavily, and being assailed by fresh
reserves, the front line gave way
and retreated down the hill. But
by this time the Duke of Cambridge’s
division was across the
stream and moving up. The broken
masses passed through the ranks,
which closed and advanced solidly,
with the same success as the first line,
and the success was more enduring.
English guns, hitherto opposed to
the Russian artillery, were now
brought across the stream—they
were set free to do so partly by the
progress of the French on the flank,
partly by the action of two guns
that Lord Raglan had brought
across the stream in the space between
the armies, and which, taking
the Russian line in reverse, caused
it to fall back. The English divisions
thus maintained themselves—the
heavy columns that advanced
against them were repulsed partly
by artillery, partly by the fire of the
line—the Russians fell back slowly
to the top of the heights, and retreated
along the plain, pursued by
the fire of our horse-artillery. The
English batteries then advanced.
When they reached the plateau the
enemy’s masses were already at
some distance, moving towards Sebastopol.
The French on the right
were coming up so deliberately
that it was evident they had no
thought of molesting the enemy’s
retreat, and on a proposition being
made to them to join in a pursuit
they declined it.</p>

<p class='c012'>Whether it was or was not owing
to the cause to which Mr Kinglake
attributes it—namely, to the fact
that the French leaders, selected as
they almost all were for their share
in the <i><span lang="fr">coup d’état</span></i>, were men in
whom the troops had no confidence—it
is certain that the reputation of
the French army was not augmented
by this action. The report of
St Arnaud paints their valour and
skill in the most brilliant colours.
He does not scruple largely to exaggerate
the numbers of the enemy.
There were, according to him,
40,000 Russian bayonets, 6000 cavalry,
and 180 guns opposed to the
Allies. The true numbers were,
according to Mr Kinglake, 36,000
infantry, 3400 cavalry, and 108
guns. The advantages of the Russians
consisted in their strong position,
their superiority in cavalry,
and their 14 heavy guns. The
movement of the French was ineffective,
partly from misdirection,
partly from their slowness to close
with the enemy. To the English,
therefore, fell a task as difficult as
that which would have fallen to
them in ordinary cases had the
Russians been equal in strength
to the Allies—and the battle of
the Alma is eminently an English
victory.</p>

<p class='c012'>It is evident that if the general
of an inferior army can oppose one
great mass of his enemy with a small
number of his troops, and is thus at
liberty to meet the remainder on
equal terms, he has gained a great
point in his favour; and this
Mentschikoff did. Yet we perfectly
agree with Mr Kinglake that
Mentschikoff showed no talent, and
did no justice to his troops. As
we have seen, he allowed the march
to be unmolested. He made no
use of the time at his disposal to
strengthen his position artificially.
Mr Kinglake rightly asserts this in
contradiction to official and other
authorities. Fords might have been
rendered impracticable, roads obstructed,
field-works thrown up, and
the advancing troops would thus
have been detained under the heavy
fire of the defenders, till on closing,
if they should succeed in closing, it
would be with numbers too much
diminished for success. But there
were no intrenchments nor obstacles
worth mentioning on the field.
And we regret to observe that Mr
Kinglake, though he explains in a
note that he knows the term to be
inapplicable, and that he only follows
an established precedent, talks
of the position of the Russian battery
as “the Great Redoubt.” We
regret it, because the impression
conveyed is false to those who do
not know the truth, and irrelevant
to those who do. The only work
was a bank of earth not a yard
high, which partially covered the
Russian guns of position, and which
was probably intended as much for
preventing them from running
down the hill as for anything else.
There were no embrasures, for, as
the guns looked over the bank,
none were necessary; it had not
even the additional impediment of
a ditch in front, the earth which
formed it being taken from spaces
dug between the guns. It was no
more like a “Great Redoubt,” than
it was like the Great Wall of China.
And this being the case, all such
expressions as “storming” are quite
inapplicable.</p>

<p class='c012'>It is evident that, if an army superior
in numbers wishes to bring
its superiority to bear, it must outflank
the enemy on one or both
sides. Which flank, then, would
it have been best in the present
case to turn? The French turned
the left. There was the natural
temptation of advancing over
ground where the turning columns
were protected by the fire of the
fleet. But they moved against an
imaginary foe, and a large part of
the force might have been as well
on board ship for all the effect it
had on the action. Moreover,
though the turning movement was
completed, yet it had none of its
legitimate effects, for the Russians
left only two guns and no prisoners.
It is clear then that none of the advantages
to be expected from a
successful attack in flank followed
here.</p>

<p class='c012'>Now suppose—as there are but
two flanks to an enemy, and no
great things had been done by
turning one—that the manœuvre
had been effected against the other.
The Allies would have moved away
from the sea up the river. The
road next the sea was closed to the
Russians by the ships’ broadsides.
Opposite the next road, that by
which Bosquet led his second brigade,
the Turks might have been
left. The right of the French
would then have been where the
right of the English really was,
that is, in the village of Bourliouk.
And the English would have
stretched so far beyond the enemy’s
right, that at least three divisions
would have been available for turning
that flank. To the Russians,
seeing this, only certain alternatives
would be possible: either to try
to thrust themselves between us
and the sea—in which case the
cliff would have restricted them to
the one road guarded by the Turks,
and where any part of their force
that made the attempt would be
lost if it should fail, as it certainly
would fail; or, secondly, an extension
of their already sufficiently
extended line till its length corresponded
with that of the Allies,
by which extension it would
be fatally weakened; or, thirdly, a
movement of the entire army to
the right, which would have uncovered
the Sebastopol road, and
was therefore not to be thought of.
Therefore the Russians must have
stood to fight on the ground they
occupied, throwing back their right
wing to meet the threatened attack
on their flank. The Allied
artillery should then have been
massed—one portion to oppose the
great battery, one to pour a storm
of shot on the right wing, the object
of attack; and the horse-artillery
and one or two batteries, after
flanking the advance from their
own side of the river, should have
been held ready to follow the flanking
columns of attack as soon as
they should be established on the
other bank. The advance, instead
of being in echelon from the right,
would be in echelon from the left—the
Light Division, followed by
the First and Fourth, would make
the turning movement and attack
the right wing—the remaining
English divisions would advance
upon the centre, and upon the
angle formed by the centre and
right; and, as soon as the Russian
line fronting the river should be
shaken by the front and flank attack
and the reverse fire, the
French divisions advancing would
find their share of the task easy.
Two results would have followed,
both important—the first, that
the position would have been carried
with much less loss of life—secondly,
that the losses of the
Russians would have been far
greater. For it is to be observed
that, by turning the left of the
Russians, and interposing between
them and the sea, they were driven
back along their proper line of retreat;
whereas, had the right been
turned, the English left wing,
pushing obliquely across the enemy’s
rear, would have reached the
Sebastopol road on the top of the
plateau, and the result of that
would have been to drive the
beaten troops towards the sea, and
to enclose all that part of the
Russian left which should be last
to retreat between our line and
the cliffs, thus capturing many
prisoners. And as the enemy were
superior in cavalry, the English
left must have carefully guarded
itself, during its advance, from the
Russian horse, first, by our artillery
on our own side of the river, and
afterwards by guns following in
support, by battalions on the left
echeloned in squares, and by our
own cavalry. Many reasons, then,
induce us to consider the French
attack a mistake. And the more
complete turning movement which
Mr Kinglake seems, as if by authority,
to ascribe to Marshal Pelissier,
as what <em>he</em> would have done—namely,
“to avoid all encounter
with the enemy on his chosen
stronghold by taking ample ground
to their left, and boldly marching
round him”—would have been objectionable,
inasmuch as it would
have left no option of retreating on
Eupatoria, in case the attack should
prove unsuccessful; and no plan
can be sound that does not provide
for the contingency of defeat.</p>

<p class='c012'>Mr Kinglake modestly declines
to give an opinion on the question
of what plan might have been better.
But he need not have scrupled
to do so, as he deals extremely well
with the technicalities of military
art. His account of the manœuvres
preceding and during the battle is
remarkably clear. His discussion as
to the respective merits of lines
and columns shows that he thoroughly
appreciates the philosophy
of the subject. But it is not so
much to the credit of his estimate
of what constitutes generalship,
that he implies so great approval of
Lord Raglan’s solitary ride beyond
the enemy’s front, and of his continued
occupation of the knoll there
throughout the stress of the battle.
Of course it would be a great advantage
to a general in every action
to be able to see exactly what was
passing in rear of the enemy’s line.
But it would be an advantage only
as it would give him the means
of directing his own troops with
greater certainty. To see the enemy’s
rear, at the expense of losing
the control of his own army,
would be quite the reverse of an
advantage. And imagine the state
of things if two opposing generals
in a battle should be absorbed in
their efforts to pass, like two pawns
at chess, behind the opposing lines.
If it had appeared to the general
that an opportunity existed for
wedging a part of his force within
a weak spot of the enemy’s line,
staff officers might have been sent
to ascertain the fact, while the guns
and their escort required to effect
the manœuvre might have been
brought from the reserve, or the
nearest available division, and posted
in readiness to advance. We
know that during this excursion of
Lord Raglan the English divisions
were confused for want of a controlling
power to direct them. The
action of the English artillery was
without unity, at a time when a
concentrated fire against the hill
on which the attack was to be
made would have had a most important
influence on the result.
Mr Kinglake tells us that Lord
Raglan from his knoll witnessed
the first advance of the troops of our
first line, and saw that they would
not be able to hold their ground because
they were not supported; but
adds, that he did not attempt to
apply a remedy, because no order
sent by him could possibly arrive
in time to be of service. Surely
this of itself might have convinced
Mr Kinglake that the general’s
place was elsewhere. And we will
add, that, at the close of the struggle,
our successful troops did not receive
that impulsion which none
but the supreme directing authority
can give, and which was necessary
to push the victory home.</p>

<p class='c012'>But though we do not think the
occasions for praising Lord Raglan
are always judiciously chosen, we
thoroughly agree in Mr Kinglake’s
estimate of the character of that
kind excellent gentleman and gallant
soldier. His tact, temper, and
bearing were all of a kind calculated
to be of eminent service in an allied
command, and secured to him at
once the attachment of his own
army and the respect of the French.</p>

<p class='c012'>Mr Kinglake has scarcely accomplished
half of that task which is
so weighty, but which his qualities
as a narrator have made to seem so
light. And it is because so many
events yet remain to receive his impress,
that we would venture to remind
him how the French army in
the Crimea, though it did not by its
first achievements enhance its reputation,
yet performed many great and
gallant actions. The aid which
Bosquet brought us at Inkermann,
though long in coming, was effectual.
The part of the French in
that battle, infantry and artillery,
was highly honourable. They often
maintained terrible conflicts in the
trenches, where both sides fought
well, but where the French were
victors. Their arrangements for
receiving the attack on the Tchernaya
were such that the assailant
never had a chance of penetrating
their lines. And their terrible
losses in the final assault prove the
magnitude of the obstacles they encountered,
and the ardour with which
they overcame them. But while
we do not forget this, neither can
we regret that thus far Mr Kinglake
has sought to redress the balance of
history, by awarding to our army
its share of credit. Reputation is the
breath of its nostrils, and our allies
have appeared but too desirous to
monopolise what was gained in this
war.</p>

<p class='c012'>And we also venture to observe
that Mr Kinglake’s enemies—and
he has scattered in these volumes
dragon’s teeth enough to produce a
plentiful crop—may find occasion
to say that in praising his friends
he is equally uncompromising as in
censuring his foes. Small traits of
character receive undue prominence,
small merits, undue laudation; as,
for instance, when the way in which
the Highland Brigade was made to
drink at the Bulganak is praised as
if it were a stroke of military genius,
and where a paragraph is devoted
to describing how its commander
pronounced the not very remarkable
words, “Forward, 42d!” and
when it is further added, “‘As a
steed that knows his rider,’ the
great heart of the battalion bounded
proudly to his touch,” Mr Kinglake
lets himself slip into a style much
beneath his own. But what no
enemy can deny is the extraordinary
animation, clearness, sustained interest,
and dramatic as well as descriptive
excellence of the work. A
vast field for these qualities yet remains—the
flank march, the commencement
of the siege, the hurricane,
the action of Balaklava (fine
soil for dragon’s teeth), the battle of
Inkermann, the long calamities and
glories of the trenches, the death of
the Czar, and of the English commander,
the final assault, and the
destruction of the stronghold—into
all these scenes we shall follow Mr
Kinglake, confident of seeing them
treated by a great artist.</p>

<p class='c012'>As a concluding remark, we will
say that we think no history of this
war can be complete which does not
devote a chapter to the discussion
of the causes which made the British
army of 1854 so different, in all
except fighting power, from the
British army of 1814, as a machine
of war. The long peace, the growth
of the commercial spirit, the Peace
Party, the administration of the
army by the Duke of Wellington,
and the influence of the long-continued
public demand for economy,
must all be taken into account before
the breaking down of that
machine, as to be recorded hereafter,
can be fairly and fully accounted
for, and a true comparison drawn
between our military system and
that of the French.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_384'>384</span>
  <h2 class='c002'>THE OPENING OF THE SESSION.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c016'>The Session has commenced under
circumstances so unfavourable
to the Ministry that even their most
sanguine friends are dejected. The
omens are unmistakably against
them, and the auspices are corroborated
by the more palpable evidence
of hard facts. The Session
was barely a week old when the
first division took place, and left
the Ministry in a minority. It was
a Government question, but the Opposition
motion, brought forward
by Mr Peacocke, was carried by the
large majority of 113 to 73. This
was a bad beginning; and, unenlightened
by the result, the Ministry
have since then exposed themselves
to, and undergone, two similar
defeats. The events of the same
week out-of-doors brought them a
worse and less avoidable disaster.
Two elections went against them.
We certainly do not claim the Cambridge
election as any great triumph
of Conservative principles, but it
was a blow to the Ministry. Lord
Palmerston’s reputation is deservedly
great, and in not a few elections
the Ministerial candidate has escaped
defeat by proclaiming himself simply
a Palmerstonian, and asserting
that the Premier was as good a
Conservative as any member of the
Opposition. The ex-member for
Cambridge, Mr Steuart, although
returned as a Conservative, subsequently
became a “Palmerstonian;”
but no sooner did his constituents
obtain an opportunity of showing
their sentiments by their votes,
than they declared in favour of a
Conservative who avowed himself
an opponent of Lord Palmerston.
This, we say, may be called a
trifle, but it is a straw which
shows which way the wind is blowing.
The other electoral contest—at
Devonport—was a very different
affair. In former elections for that
borough the Liberals had won the
day. Moreover, owing to the large
Government dockyards, the constituency
of Devonport is peculiarly
amenable to Ministerial influence.
In spite of all this, the
Ministerial candidate, although
strenuously backed by the whole
influence of the Admiralty, and
himself a Grey to boot, has been defeated,
and one of the most stanch
of Conservatives, and a thorough
party-man, Mr Ferrand, has been
elected by a majority of thirty.
This is a triumph for the Opposition
too remarkable to be explained
away. The Government
has been defeated in its own dockyard.
Driven to candour by the very
magnitude of the disaster, a Ministerial
journal<a id='r11'></a><a href='#f11' class='c015'><sup>[11]</sup></a> says:—“It is a surprising
innovation. Constituencies
like Devonport, where the Government
is a great employer of labourers
having votes, have hitherto been
considered almost as nomination
boroughs.” Even the Whigs have
got sick of “innovations” now, finding
they will no longer go down
with the public; but such an innovation
as that accomplished by the
constituency of Devonport must cut
them to the heart. If they can no
longer get their candidates returned
even in Government pocket boroughs,
what are they to do? In
Ireland a Government appointment
went a-begging for a year, because
no Whig member would risk the
new election that must follow his
acceptance of it. It would seem
that the Government are now in the
same sad predicament on both sides
of the Irish Channel.</p>

<p class='c012'>Obviously the “Conservative reaction”
has entered upon a new
phase. The country is resolved
to have not only a Conservative
policy, but a Conservative Ministry.
At first, when it was seen that the
Whig Ministry abandoned its mischievous
attempts to degrade the
franchise, many constituencies contented
themselves with electing
men of Conservative tendencies,
even though they gave a general
support to the Government. But
this feeling is dying away; neutrality
is being abandoned for active
opposition. The change is
doubtless due to more causes than
one. But the chief influence in
producing the change is a love of
fair-play. This is peculiarly the
case in regard to the English constituencies,
where public opinion is
more calm and better balanced on
political questions than it is in the
sister kingdoms. There is a striking
difference, we may remark, in
the modes of political feeling and
action which characterise the three
great sections of the United Kingdom.
Party-spirit and religious zeal
(which, though generally, are not
always coincident forces) predominate
in Ireland. In Scotland, although
the ecclesiastical spirit is
very strong, the peculiar characteristic
of the people in politics is their
attachment to ideas pure and simple:
they are the great theorists and
innovators, and will go all lengths in
the logical application of their principles.
Fortunately the English
constituencies are admirable ballast,
and keep straight the vessel of the
State. They care little for “ideas,”
but a great deal for good and safe
government: they are businesslike
and matter-of-fact, and, above all
things, are lovers of fair-play. In
many an English constituency the
representation, by mutual agreement,
is divided between the rival
parties. A Whig and a Tory are
returned together, or two Tories
and a Whig, or one Tory and two
Whigs; and in some boroughs,
where there is a great landed proprietor
who owns nearly the whole
area of the borough, the duke or
other magnate is allowed to name
one member and the majority of
the constituency the other. This
is a businesslike compromise which
aptly illustrates English character.
Every one knows that property
must have a great influence, whether
wielded by a territorial magnate
or by a millowner; but in
assigning one seat to the magnate,
the constituency is, by a well-understood
agreement, left free to choose
its own man for the other, without
any interference on the part of the
magnate’s influence. In the other
case (which generally occurs in counties),
where the representation is divided,
equally or unequally, between
the rival political parties, the same
spirit of compromise is apparent.
It saves many contested elections,
and it is likewise a virtual adoption
of the principle of the representation
of minorities. Scotchmen
would do none of these things: a
divided representation would seem
to them as good as none. As long
as any party in a Scotch constituency
has a majority, however small,
it will insist upon carrying its own
men. The spirit of compromise
which distinguishes English constituencies
arises partly from their
love of fair-play, partly from the
fact that they are not such fervid
politicians as the Scotch, and deal
with politics not as an affair of
immutable principles or scientific
deduction, but as an ordinary business
matter, which they decide by
striking a balance of the miscellaneous
considerations which affect
them. Now, that balance is turning
every day more strongly against
the Liberals. The Scotch may
think it best to have Liberals in
office even though they carry out a
Conservative policy. But Englishmen
don’t like this. In the first
place, it is not fair. Each side
should have its innings, and the
Whigs have confessedly played out
their game. Office has its sweets,
and John Bull thinks that it is
more than time that the Tories
should get their turn of the good
things. A man cannot live upon
politics any more than upon love;
and although to the leading statesmen
on both sides the emoluments
of office are as nothing, the tenure of
political power by one party or the
other makes a material difference to
each. John Bull understands this.
Moreover, if the retention of office
by the Liberals is not fair, it is
also not manly or honest. John
Bull, like old George III., does not
like “Scotch metaphysics.” He
does not appreciate the casuistical
reasoning by which it may be shown
that a Ministry which took office to
do one thing, may stay in office to
do the opposite. Since the Whigs
have given up their principles, he
thinks they should also give up
their places. Doubtless too, if he
takes any interest in the morals of
Whiggery (which we greatly doubt,
seeing they are so purely speculative),
he must come to the conclusion
that the principles of the party
are rotting so fast on the Treasury
seats that it is high time to give
them an airing in the bracing atmosphere
of the Opposition benches.</p>

<p class='c012'>The country now sees that, if it
had known the truth four years
ago, the present Ministry would
never have been in existence. The
Whigs and Radicals overthrew the
Conservative Government in 1859
by means of false statements and
false professions. It took some
time before the real state of the
case could be demonstrated, but
gradually it was made plain by the
conduct of the Liberals themselves.
Slowly but steadily the truth has
dawned upon the constituencies:
they feel that they were duped by
the present occupants of office, and
they are now conscious also that
they did injustice to the Conservatives.
The Whig chiefs who, before
they got into office, deemed Parliamentary
Reform a matter of such
urgency that they promised to hold
a special session in November in
order to pass a Reform Bill, first
delayed to fulfil their promise, and
then threw up the matter altogether.
The excuse which they
plead is, that they found Parliament
unfavourable to any further tampering
with the constitution. But if
Parliament was right, they themselves
were condemned; if it were
wrong, why did they not dissolve,
and appeal to the country? Had they
been in earnest, they would have
dissolved: but they knew that a
dissolution would have been followed
by the election of a Parliament
still more hostile to them and to
their measure. And therefore they
chose rather to remain self-condemned,
and to be pointed at with
the finger of scorn, by the one
party as recreants, by the other as
impostors, rather than save their
honour at least by the sacrifice of
office. This tells against them now.
The revulsion of public feeling was
not, and could not be, immediate—for
the duplicity and insincerity of
the Ministry only revealed itself by
degrees; but it was certain from the
first, and has now become overwhelming.
The Ministry have come
to be regarded with contempt, and
every new election is taken advantage
of by the constituencies to give
expression to their censure. But
this is not the whole of the change
which the last four years have
wrought on the public mind. Alongside
of the consciousness of the sins
and demerits of the present Ministry,
there has arisen the conviction
that the principles of the Conservative
party are the right ones for
the country. The constituencies
now feel not only that the present
Ministry is a bad one, but that its
predecessor was a good one. They
have become sensible that, if any
Reform Bill were needed at all, the
Bill brought forward by Mr Disraeli
was the one that best deserved
to be adopted. They are now
conscious that if any change at all
were requisite in the matter of
Church-rates, Mr Walpole’s Bill was
well deserving of support, and that
the measure of total abolition to
which the present Ministry have
pledged themselves is wholly out of
the question. Finally, and for a good
while past, the country has come
to see that, led away by the misrepresentations
of the Whigs, it did
gross injustice to the foreign policy
of the Conservative Government.
We do not know by what fatality
it was that Lord Malmesbury’s despatches
on the Italian question
were not published until too late
to affect the division on the vote
of want of confidence in June 1859.
Had they been published earlier,
we believe the issue of that division
would have been different.
Every one may remember (or may
see for himself by referring to the
file) the effect which the publication
of those despatches produced
on the ‘Times,’ and how the leading
journal, thus enlightened as to
the facts, frankly, and without any
reservation, admitted that Lord
Malmesbury had been right throughout.
And certainly no one can forget
how Lord John Russell, when
taking farewell of the House of
Commons, took occasion—or rather
made occasion—to say that he approved
of the policy of his predecessor,
and that (which is more than
his colleagues could say) he had
been of that opinion from the beginning.
The impression, originated
and studiously fostered by
Lord Palmerston and his followers,
that the Conservatives are unfriendly
to the cause of freedom and independence
in Italy, is totally unfounded.
They have certainly mistrusted
the disinterestedness of the
policy of the French Emperor, and
have cautioned the Italian Government
against seeking to reach the
height of its ambition by machinations
which would only redound to
its own disadvantage: and on both
of these points the Italians themselves
must now be convinced that
the warnings and advices of the
Conservative statesmen were wellfounded.
At all events, taught by
a bitter experience, the Italian Government
is now following the very
course which the Conservatives recommended.
We may add a word
on our own part. The Magazine
will certainly be admitted to be as
sound an exponent of Conservatism
as is to be found either in or out of
Parliament, and we can refer to our
own pages to demonstrate how heartily
we have sympathised with the
Italian cause, wherever it was not
marred by such secret traffickings
with the French Government, as the
Italians themselves now regret and
condemn; or by violations of law
which, though natural to times of
revolution, may be condoned, but
cannot be approved.</p>

<p class='c012'>The Ministerial programme for
the present Session contains another
confession of errors on the part of
the Government, and a fresh proof
of the wisdom of the opinions of the
Conservative party. Destitute, as
usual, of the capacity to originate
measures of useful legislation, the
Budget is to be brought forward
early, to cover the prospective barrenness
of the Session. And what
is the feature of this year’s Budget,
upon which the Ministry rely to
cover their flagrant incapacity in
other matters of administration?
It is a reduction of the naval and
military estimates! It is the adoption
of the very course so earnestly
advocated last year by the Opposition,
and so strenuously resisted
by the Government. Hardly eight
months have elapsed since Lord
Palmerston and his colleagues confidently
and haughtily maintained
that no reduction could be made
upon the large sums voted for the
support of the national armaments,
without destroying the influence
and safety of the country. Mr
Disraeli, during last Session, argued
strongly in favour of making such
a reduction, on the ground that so
heavy an expenditure was uncalled
for, and was in reality damaging to
our military power, by trenching
so deeply upon the financial resources
of the State. Again and
again he pressed these views upon
the Government—it was his constant
theme all through last Session;
but the Government refused
to accept the warnings, and resolutely
maintained that no reduction
could be made. What, then, are
we to think of them now? In what
respect is the attitude of the times
more favourable for a reduction now
than it was eight months ago? In
so far as there has been any change,
the change has been clearly for the
worse. There has been a revolution
in Greece, of the issues of which as
yet we have hardly seen the beginning.
Servia has been arming, by
the secret assistance of Russia; and
the Danubian Principalities, and
northern provinces of Turkey generally,
are in a more unquiet state
than they have been for years.
And now we have a revolution in
Poland, which is throwing all Central
Europe into agitation, and furnishing
fresh opportunities for the
intrigues or intervention of other
Powers. So far, then, as there has
been any change in the situation
since last summer, the change, we
repeat, has been for the worse. Nothing
could demonstrate more strikingly
than this the consciousness
of the Government that they were
wrong last Session, and that the Conservatives
were right. It is a new
triumph for the Conservative party—a
fresh condemnation of themselves
by the Ministry. The trump
card with which the Ministry are to
lead off this Session has been stolen
from the hands of the Opposition.</p>

<p class='c012'>It is high time, indeed, that the
Chancellor of the Exchequer were
retrenching his expenditure; for,
weak as the Administration has
been in other respects, the management
of the finances has been peculiarly
disastrous. Although the present
Ministry took office with a surplus,
which they owed to their predecessors,
in the two succeeding
years (1860–2) in which Mr Gladstone
had the exclusive direction of
the finances, his mismanagement
accumulated a deficit of four millions
sterling. Nor is this all. For
in the same period Mr Gladstone
anticipated the revenue of the country
to the extent of £3,200,000,—namely,
£2,000,000 anticipated upon
the income-tax, and upwards of
£1,200,000 upon the malt-credit.
This enormous deficit—<em>seven and
a half millions sterling</em>—was, moreover,
accumulated during a period
when the national Exchequer
enjoyed windfalls such as very
rarely come to the aid of a Minister
of Finance. The falling-in of the
terminable annuities has reduced
the charges on the National Debt to
the extent of £2,000,000; and there
was also the unexpected repayment
of a portion of the Spanish loan.
Mr Gladstone, therefore, has enough
to do with the surplus which he will
obtain by the proposed reduction of
the expenditure. He has first to
restore the Exchequer balances to
their proper amount, by repaying
the £2,684,000 which he abstracted
from them to meet his exigencies
between March 1860 and March
1862. He has likewise to get rid of
the addition to the National Debt
which he created, to the extent of
£461,000. And, finally, he has to
cease his forestalments of the revenue.
When he has done these
things, where will be his surplus?
Mr Gladstone, in former times,
used to denounce the slightest
forestalment of the yearly revenue
as a flagrant “violation of political
morality;” and there is no
question that such a procedure
can only be excused under exceptional
circumstances and to a very
small amount. The House of
Commons, therefore, as watchful
guardians of the public revenue,
will surely call upon the Chancellor
of the Exchequer to restore matters
to their normal condition before he
does anything else. The same must
be done in regard to the Exchequer
balances. And if it be not an equally
pressing necessity to pay off the
£461,000 of new debt, surely Mr
Gladstone, who aspires to the reputation
of a great Finance Minister,
will be ashamed to leave unpaid
off a portion of the national
obligations which will hereafter be
known as “Gladstone’s Debt.”
Unfortunately, when we think of
1853–4, we must allow that this is
not the only portion of the National
Debt which may be thus designated.</p>

<p class='c012'>Most financiers, and all sound
ones, in such circumstances, would
devote the surplus of revenue which
might accrue to redressing the adverse
balance of former years. But
Mr Gladstone belongs to a new
school. He leaves the balances to
come right as they may, or bequeaths
them as an embarrassment
to his successor; while he goes on
in his seemingly endless process of
devising financial alterations, which
always leave him deeper in the
mire. He loves to carry every inch
of canvass—he crowds all sail as he
drives his financial pinnace through
strange waters; but he has shipped
so many seas that the Exchequer
has become waterlogged. He had
better bale out the water before he
goes any further. But this is precisely
what he will not do. He
must have a “sensation” budget.
He must reduce some branches of
the revenue and experiment with
more. Already he lifts up a corner
of the curtain to give us a
glimpse of the grand tableau of
jugglery which he has in store
for us; and in due time the House
will be wheedled and overwhelmed
by the suave rhetoric of the
great financial juggler.  Possibly,
however, the country will think
that it has had too much of this
already. It thinks of the cheap
paper and cheap wines, and cannot
see anything in these changes to
atone for a deficit of seven millions
and a half. Mr Gladstone’s
abolition of the paper-duties was
done not only at a wrong time, but
in a wrong way. He not only landed
himself in a deficit, but he landed
the papermakers in a dilemma.
He struck off the excise-duty on
the one hand and the import-duty
on paper on the other, and called
it “free trade;” but while making
free trade in the manufactured
article, he ought to have
taken care that there should be
free trade likewise in the raw material.
Several Continental countries
send their paper, untaxed, to
compete in the English markets
with the produce of our own paper-mills,
while at the same time they
place a prohibitory duty on the
export to our shores of rags. Our
papermakers do not object to fair
competition, but they object to be
subjected by legislative enactment
to so serious a disadvantage. If
the crop of cotton in America were
to fall off in extent (as it has done
during this civil war), and the Americans,
when peace is restored, were
to place (as they have talked of
doing) a prohibitory duty upon the
export of cotton, while we did not
retaliate by placing an import-duty
on the manufactured article from
their ports, what would our manufacturers
think of this sort of
“free trade?” Why, such a state
of matters would produce a calamity
in our manufacturing districts
equal to that under which we are
now suffering, and ruin the cotton
industry in this country permanently.
Yet this is the condition
of affairs which Mr Gladstone
voluntarily chooses to impose upon
our paper manufacture, in deference
to the clamour and exhortations of
his Radical friends. What has become
of the touching picture which
the eloquent financier portrayed of
paper-mills springing up all over
the country,—when every hamlet
was to have its little factory, engaging
the surplus labour of the lads
and lasses; and every glen that
had a streamlet was to be made
musical with the noise of a paper-mill?
We have not heard of any
such results—we have not heard of
any extension at all of the manufacture;
and as for Mr Gladstone’s
arcadian dreams of paper-making,
while foreign Governments act towards
us in the way they do, he
surely cannot possibly hope for
their realisation—unless, indeed, he
expects the whole country to go to
rags under his financial mismanagement.</p>

<p class='c012'>The other basis upon which Mr
Gladstone founds his reputation as
a great financier, and as an ample
compensation for his past annual
deficits, is his reduction of the
duties upon French wines. We
readily admit that these wines have
been poured into this country in
greatly increased quantities during
the last eighteen months; but will
this continue? And what is the
advantage we derive from the
change? “Gladstone’s wines” has
become a current name for these
beverages, but it is certainly not
a “household word.” Any one
who confesses, with rueful face,
that he has made acquaintance
with these wines, never fails to explain
that it was at another man’s
table, or at some villanous restaurant’s,—never
at his own. No decanter
will circulate if its contents
are known to have been favoured
by the legislation of Mr Gladstone.
People have become wary and suspicious
at dinner-parties now; and
a Paterfamilias may be heard giving
the caution which old Squire
Hazeldean gave to his son when
about to dine with Dr Riccabocca,
“Whatever you take, Frank, don’t
touch his wines!” Those “cheap
wines” have been tried—or, at
least, if tried, have been condemned
and discarded at every respectable
dinner-table. They don’t suit the
middle classes; that is an incontrovertible
fact. We are not less sure
they are equally ill suited to
the tastes and requirements of the
working-classes. They have hitherto
been tried largely as a novelty;
but they do not improve on acquaintance,
even if we could forget
the much better use which Mr
Gladstone could have made of his
opportunities. Depend upon it,
Nature knows better than any
Chancellor of the Exchequer how
to provide for our bodily wants,
and supplies the essential wants
of each people from the products
of their own country. Let our
working-classes get good beer at its
natural price, and it will be infinitely
better for their health, and
more to their taste, than giving them
cheap foreign wines, whose thinness
and acidity are not suited for our
climate, and which cannot compete
with beer as nourishers and supporters
of the bodily strength.
When we remember, on the one
hand, that seven and a half millions
sterling have been lost to the
country in Mr Gladstone’s financial
experiments; and, on the other,
how much better would have been
a reduction on the duties of tea,
sugar, and beer, it will be admitted
that he could hardly have wasted
so much money with less benefit
to the community. Abundance of
acid wines and plenty of paper—it
is a curious prescription for Mr
Gladstone to found his reputation
upon.</p>

<p class='c012'>But Mr Gladstone is resolved to
proceed in his eccentric course. His
crotchet this year is to cheapen tobacco.
Three and a half years ago
(in November 1859) Mr Bright delivered
two orations at public meetings
in favour of the abolition of
the duties on tea, sugar, and tobacco,
and the substitution therefor of
an enormous income-tax. But Mr
Bright thought that the tea and
sugar duties were more deserving
of reduction than the duty on tobacco,
whereas Mr Gladstone gives a
preference to tobacco. How is this
to be accounted for? On the surface
it appears a new piece of financial
eccentricity; and in every
view of the matter the Chancellor
of the Exchequer, we should think,
will find no small difficulty in obtaining
the consent of Parliament
to his proposal. There can be no
question that tea, sugar, and beer
have each and all prior claims upon
the favour of Parliament, if the
wellbeing of the community is to
be consulted. But Mr Gladstone,
in the speech which he made when
introducing his proposal, propounded
the extraordinary doctrine that
a Chancellor of the Exchequer (and
of course the Government which
must approve his acts) has nothing
to do with the wellbeing of the
community. His only duty, says
Mr Gladstone, is to get as much
money as possible out of the taxed
commodities. Judged by this rule,
Mr Gladstone has certainly been a
most unsuccessful Minister. We
cannot, indeed, accept this view of
a Minister’s obligations to the country;
but, even if it were accepted,
it would not furnish any justification
of Mr Gladstone’s proposal.
He says that the present duty upon
tobacco is so high that smuggling
is carried on to a large extent, and
cannot be prevented by the Custom-house
officers. This would be
a good argument for abolishing the
duty or reducing it to a trifling
amount, but it is totally inapplicable
to the case when he proposes to
leave a tax of five shillings a-pound
on manufactured tobacco, which is
more than equal to the price of the
best manufactured tobacco, freight
included. The smuggler would
still make a profit of more than a
hundred per cent on the value of
the commodity; and does any one
believe that smuggling would cease,
or even be sensibly diminished,
when the premium upon smuggling
is so great, and when (as Mr Gladstone
states) the facilities of evasion
are so plentiful? If Mr Gladstone
were honest in the plea upon which
he rests his proposal for this reduction
of customs-duty, he would be labouring
under a great delusion. But
we take another view of the matter.
It seems to us that his real object
is secretly to carry out Mr Bright’s
scheme of finance, and with great
craft he begins with the duties on tobacco,
where his operations are least
likely to excite suspicion, but which,
if accomplished, will render the subsequent
steps of the scheme not only
easy but inevitable. There may be
little to find fault with in the present
proposal considered by itself;
but what is its bearing in regard to
our financial system? Reduce the
duty on tobacco, and what other
customs-duty can be maintained?
Mr Gladstone was never more eloquent
and plausible than when
proposing to reduce the duty on
foreign wines; now he is playing
the same artful game in regard
to tobacco. Can Parliament
be any longer blind to the course
to which he is committing it?
Honest financiers, who could afford
to make a reduction of taxation,
would begin with tea, sugar, and
beer, as the duties on these can be
remitted with the greatest advantage
to the community; while those
on luxuries, such as foreign wines and
tobacco, could be maintained without
inconvenience or complaint.
But just for this very reason Mr
Gladstone, who aims at accomplishing
Mr Bright’s scheme of taxation,
begins at the other end—knowing
well that if he can reduce the taxes
on tobacco as well as on foreign
wines, the <em>abolition</em> of the other customs-duties
will follow as a natural
consequence. A reduction to the
extent of one-half the duties on luxuries
cannot be balanced save by
totally abolishing the duties on the
necessaries of life. We have a strong
conviction that this is his game; for
the good reason that upon no other
supposition is his conduct intelligible.
Mr Gladstone is not a fool; he
must have an adequate motive for
this seemingly crotchety course; and
we believe we have named it. Let
the House of Commons look to it,
before they are led too far into the
toils to be able to recede.</p>

<p class='c012'>Plausible in the extreme, and
ever seeking to conciliate or overreach
his audience by all the arts
of rhetoric and casuistry, Mr Gladstone
changes his arguments and
mode of dealing with the House
almost every year, as may best suit
his plans. Financial principles he
has none—save the great one which
he conceals. All arguments are
fair, he thinks—all professions of
opinion justifiable, in order that he
may carry his point, and lead the
House step by step unwittingly towards
his goal. We need not allude
to the rhetorical craft by which, in
1860, when he wished to gain the
assent of the House to an increase
of the income-tax, he maintained
that there was a deficit of twelve
millions; whereas, in the following
year, when the balance was worse
by 2½ millions, but when he eagerly
desired to obtain the abolition of the
paper-duties, he boldly represented
that there was a surplus. At one time
he represents that the proper way
to proceed with a Budget is by a
multiplicity of separate bills; at
another time (when it suits his purpose
better) in the form of a single
bill. But his disregard of financial
principles, or rather his alternate
adoption and repudiation of principles
the most opposite, is a still
more glaring offence. In the case
of the French Treaty, he was wholly
in favour of Reciprocity; in the
case of the Paper-duties, he represented
that it was right for us to
abolish them without any attempt
at obtaining reciprocity, and although
some countries actually prohibited
the export of the raw material
of the manufacture! He reduced
the duty on French wines on the
ground that the reduction would
benefit the morals of the working-classes,
by enabling them to drink
light wines instead of strong spirits;
he now justifies his proposed reduction
of the duty on tobacco on the
very opposite principle—to wit,
that a Chancellor of the Exchequer
has nothing whatever to do with
the morals or wellbeing of the
people. His dogma for the hour
is, that his only duty is to make
the taxes as profitable as possible.
We have shown that it is
very doubtful if his present proposal
will have that effect; but, in
any case, how would his new
dogma accord with his policy in
the last two years in wholly abolishing
the duties on paper and
other commodities? He is the
most dangerous Minister that has
ever been intrusted with the management
of the British finances.
He has not only involved the country
in an accumulation of deficits,
but he has had the art to persuade
Parliament to do this with its eyes
open; while at the same time he
leads it onward, with its eyes carefully
bandaged, towards the goal
of democratic finance—which of late
years has become the cynosure of
his policy, and which he knows
would at once become unattainable
if his real purpose were avowed.</p>

<p class='c012'>Now that we are to have a surplus—in
consequence of the Ministry at
length adopting the views of the Opposition—the
first duty which devolves
upon the House of Commons
is to retrieve the financial mistakes
of the past, and to rid us of its burdens.
What the Conservative leaders
advocated last session was not
reduction of taxation, but retrenchment
of expenditure. The Government
had incurred a deficit of
£7,500,000 in two years, and the
first thing to be thought of was, to
reduce the expenditure, in order
that the deficit might be cleared off.
Let Mr Gladstone do this—let him
clear off the serious deficits in his
previous years of office; and then—but
not till then—ought he to
propound new reductions of the
revenue. But such a businesslike
proceeding would not make a sensation
budget; it would not surround
the Ministry with that bright gleam
of popularity which is to retrieve
their position, and carry them
through another session of barrenness
and humiliation. In all probability
Mr Gladstone’s proposal is
to ignore the past deficits, and devote
the whole of his prospective
surplus to the reduction of taxation.
By a reduction of taxes the country
is to be bribed into forgetfulness of
the past, and rendered placable to
the appeal for respite on the part of
a falling Ministry. It is not to be
expected that Mr Gladstone will
confine his favours to tobacco: he
must support his great remission of
duty on this luxury by minor reductions
on articles of more usefulness.
While striking four shillings
a-pound off tobacco, he will strike
a few pence or farthings off the price
of tea and sugar. In fact, he will
probably, in his usual way, give a
trifling sop all round, in order that
he may be allowed to carry his great
point in the reduction of the duties
on tobacco. The House will do
much better to abolish, or greatly
reduce, the duties on hops and beer.
Surely it is intolerable that foreign
luxuries, like tobacco and French
wines, should receive the favours of
the Legislature, while the produce
of our own soil and industry, constituting
a healthy element of the
national food, should be subjected
to heavy taxation. This is a matter
which affects urban constituencies
as well as the agricultural interest.
Put it to the vote in any town or
county in the land, whether they
will have five shillings a-pound
struck off the duty on tobacco, or
get the fiscal burdens removed from
beer, and there cannot be a doubt
that the whole suffrages would be
given in favour of beer, and against
tobacco. Therefore if Mr Gladstone—as
is most likely—be resolved
once more to play an <em>ad captandum</em>
game, we trust the House of Commons
will be on the alert to see that
any possible reductions of taxation
are effected on articles which enter
largely into the food of the people,
and not wasted—with what ulterior
object, we need not repeat—upon
an enormous remission on the duties
on tobacco and cigars. But it
still more behoves the House to see
that Mr Gladstone’s previous deficits
are cleared off. Mr Gladstone
must put the finances in the condition
in which they were when he
took office. We do not presume he
will venture to continue his practice
of forestalling the revenue payments;
but he has to refund the
two millions which he abstracted
from the balances in the Exchequer
in the two years subsequent to
March 1860, and he has also to pay
off about half a million sterling
which has been added to the National
Debt during his present term
of office. Let him do these things
first; and then we will see how
much he has to spare for promoting
the introduction of cigars for
the million! Let us clear off our
past deficits, before, under the
leadership of this financial sophist,
we plunge into others that we know
not of.</p>

<p class='c012'>The past month has furnished a
most singular proof of the want of
sagacity which has characterised
the commercial policy of the Whigs
since 1847. On coming into office
at that time, their only thought
was, how to rival Sir R. Peel in
his highly popular reforms of the
tariff. Unable to equal him in administrative
sagacity, they simply
travestied his policy by carrying it
to excess. They abolished or reduced
customs-duties, and totally
relinquished the Navigation Laws,
without a thought of how the
country would fare in its future
commercial relations with other
countries. Again and again they
were warned that they were rashly
and foolishly relinquishing a valuable
vantage-ground without even
attempting to obtain those advantages
for our commerce which other
countries would be willing to cede
in return. What has been the consequence?
The ‘Magazine’ has so
often in former years predicted
what would be the result, that
we need not now go over the old
ground. Fortunately the Under-Secretary
for Foreign Affairs has
told the tale of Ministerial failure
so well, that his speech on Feb. 17,
in answer to Mr Fitzgerald, completely
substantiates the correctness
of our old predictions. We print it
here as furnishing ample matter
for reflection to politicians on both
sides of the House:—</p>

<p class='c017'>“When the hon. member for Rochdale
went to Paris to negotiate the French
treaty, the first thing he was asked
was, What had he to offer? If he had
gone to Paris with his hands empty,
it was not probable that he would have
succeeded in obtaining the concessions
which the French Government made to
him. Fortunately, however, the hon. gentleman
had much to offer. There were
heavy duties on wine and other articles
of French produce and manufactures,
and in consideration of a reduction in
those duties the French Government
consented to various changes in their
tariff which had proved very beneficial
not only to this country but to France.
It was necessary to bear in mind that in
our domestic legislation we differed from
France. We at once gave the whole
world the benefit of the concessions
which had been made to our ally.
France, on the other hand, withheld
from others the privileges she had conceded
to us, and thus retained in her
hands the means of bargaining with other
Powers for mutual commercial concessions.
When one nation sought any
favour from another nation, there were
various grounds on which the request
might be based. An appeal might be
made to the generosity of the other
Power, but it was doubtful whether that
would have much effect; or an appeal
might be made to a treaty which gave
the applicant the privileges of the most
favoured nation, and a claim advanced
for certain privileges which had been
granted to another State. Therefore it
was, above all things, desirable that
when one had no concessions to offer in
return for the advantages sought, some
other Power, which possessed the means
of bargaining, should commence the
negotiations. That was the reason why
France had been allowed to precede us in
the present instance, and every concession
which was made to her gave us
a right to claim the same. If we had
taken the initiative, the Italian Government
would very naturally have said,
‘You have nothing to give us in
exchange for what we give you, and
if we freely concede your demands we
shall be placed in a bad position in
making terms with France.’ So far
from Her Majesty’s Government not
having endeavoured to make treaties of
commerce with other nations, the fact
was that there was scarcely a Power in
Europe with whom negotiations had not
been opened during the last year or two.
The Belgian Government were asked to
make a treaty of commerce with us, as
they had done with France; and it was
pointed out to them that it would be an
unfriendly act, having entered into a
treaty with France, to refuse to negotiate
one with England. They replied by
asking what we could give to them in return,
and they suggested that if they
gave to us what they had given to France,
we [having nothing of our own to offer
them] should consent to capitalise the
Scheldt dues. Now, the capitalisation
of the Scheldt dues had nothing whatever
to do with a treaty of commerce,
and our Government [<em>nota bene</em>, having
nothing to bargain with!] at once refused
to admit the principle of purchasing
a treaty. [And yet, in the very year previous,
they had “purchased” the treaty
with France!]... The House was aware
that last year the French Government
were negotiating a treaty with Prussia
and the Zollverein. As soon as that
fact became known, our Government applied
to Prussia and the Zollverein to
make with us a similar treaty of commerce.
The reply was precisely the same
we received from Belgium—that negotiations
could not be entered into with us
until those in progress with France were
concluded. France, it was said in effect,
can give us an equivalent. You can give
us none.”</p>

<p class='c016'>During the present month the
conflict of parties in the Legislature
will be suspended as far as
the business of the country will
allow. The nation and its representatives
will have little taste for
polemical discussion during the
month that is to witness the joyous
event of the marriage of the heir-apparent
to the throne. The country
will be in jubilee, and London
will be absorbed in the fêtes and
royal ceremonial attendant upon
the nuptials. The good wishes of
all flow out to the young Prince
and his Danish bride. The hopes
of the nation centre in him. The
hearty greetings of the people await
him on this happy occasion. He
has proved himself worthy of the
esteem which he so fully enjoys.
Since the days of the Black Prince,
no heir to the throne has given
so many happy auguries of his
future. Unlike the peerless son
of Edward III., we trust that he
will be spared “long to reign over
us,” after the evil hour for us
when his royal mother shall exchange
her earthly crown for a better
one. Before the royal pageantries
and popular illuminations begin,
and the acclamations of the first
nation in the world arise to greet
him and his beautiful bride, we
tender them our sympathies, our
congratulations, and our best wishes
for their happiness. The union
promises to be a happy one for the
royal pair. It is a present happiness,
and we trust it will be a lasting
comfort, to our beloved Queen.
It is the first gleam of returning
sunshine to her heart after the
darkness of sorrow and bereavement
which so suddenly settled
down upon her fifteen months ago.
We know no drawback upon the general
joy. Even in a political point
of view this alliance is fortunate,
and desirable above any other that
could be formed. The country is
thrice happy to know that this is a
union of hearts as well as of hands,
and that the bride-elect possesses
in an eminent degree those advantages
of person, charms of manner,
and piety and amiability of character,
which captivate affection and
secure domestic happiness. While
as a good princess and queen she
will win our hearts, it is an additional
pleasure to feel that, as a
Scandinavian Princess, she will
rivet an old and national alliance,
and draw into closer bonds the
kindred races of the North.</p>

<p class='c012'>Though there will be a temporary
truce, we fear the conduct of
the Government, whether as represented
by Mr Gladstone or by Lord
Russell, will not be such as the Conservative
Opposition can approve.
Even apart from its acts, the position
of the Ministry is so unnatural,
and its reputation so tarnished and
discredited, that it cannot possibly
hope for a much longer respite.
Every week its position is becoming
more untenable. In vain do its
friends endeavour to frame apologies
for its defeats and pleas for its
existence. In vain does the leading
journal at one time claim as a merit
for the Premier that he has “no
principles;” in vain does it, at another,
seek to intimidate electors
by declaring that “unprincipled
constituencies make unscrupulous
Governments.” We should have
thought that “unprincipled constituencies”
were the very ones to
support a Premier with no “principles.”
However, as the subsequent
election at Totnes showed, the
threat was no idle word: and Government
influence and the most
tyrannical pressure were employed
to coerce the free action of that constituency.
But this course also has
failed. At Totnes the Government
simply escaped defeat: Liberals
were returned as Liberals had been
before. But at Devonport, another
pocket borough of the Ministry, the
Government was defeated, and for
the first time for several elections
a Conservative headed the poll.
Ministerial tyranny had been carried
too far. It succeeded in the
first instance, but would not be
brooked in the second. The “unscrupulous
Government” has received
a check in the corrupt exercise
of its powers which it can never
forget. It was at once a triumph
for Conservatism and for the principle
of freedom of election. We
do not wonder that Mr Ferrand,
when he took his seat in the House,
should be received with hearty acclamations
from the Conservatives,
who crowded the Opposition benches
to do him honour. The Conservative
party is now stronger by
eleven votes—counting twenty-two
on a division—since June 1859,
when the united Whigs and Radicals
succeeded in overthrowing Lord
Derby’s Government by a majority
of only thirteen.</p>

<p class='c012'>It is amusing to see the subterfuges
by which the Whigs seek to
conceal their discomfiture. Feeling
themselves going downhill very
fast, disintegrating, expiring, they
cry out that “there are no parties
nowadays.” Some of them even
go the length of saying that there
are “no principles;” the correctness
of which statement we shall
not dispute as regards themselves.
They should know best; and, indeed,
as all their old principles are
dead and gone, dismissed into the
limbo of vanities, we do not see
how they can have any left. It is
certainly suspicious that the Whigs
should have innocently discovered
that the age of party is past, at the
very time that the Tory party has
regained its old ascendancy in the
Legislature. Plain people will not
be at a loss to assign a reason. The
Whigs as a party are extinct, and,
like Chesterfield and Tyrawley,
“they don’t wish it to be known.”
The only thing that can keep the
Whigs alive in the imagination of
the public, is to show that party is
dead. Happily the country has
only to look at the Opposition side
of the House to see that the Tory
party is alive, and exuberant in
strength and hope. It is fortunate
for the interests of the State that
they are so. The main attack upon
the bulwarks of the Constitution
has been decisively repulsed—the
legions of “Reform” have been
scattered in such hopeless rout that
their leaders have thrown away
their standards and disavow their
cause. But the fight still goes on
against another front of the Constitution,
which, until lately, was
but ill defended. This combat, so interesting
and important, is itself a
test of party; and seldom have the
organisation and discipline of party
been more strikingly displayed than
in this keen warfare. Party dead!
No, truly. “An opinion has been
industriously promulgated of late,”
justly observes a contemporary,<a id='r12'></a><a href='#f12' class='c015'><sup>[12]</sup></a>
“that party distinctions have ceased
in public life, and that there are
no contested principles between
the two great political connections
of the State. Yet simultaneous
with the propagation of this doctrine
has been the most systematic
and successful assault in Parliament
upon the Church of England
that it has encountered since 1640.”
Repulsed from the political front
of the Constitution, the waves of
combat still dash furiously against
our religious institutions. It is
time that the Conservatives should
overthrow the enemies of the Constitution
in this quarter also by a
decisive victory. It will be their
crowning triumph. In truth there
is no other beyond it. When they
have terminated this combat, the
Conservative triumph is complete
in the Legislature, as it already is
in the country. The Church is
part and parcel of the British Constitution;
and very heartily do we
approve of our ecclesiastical contemporary’s
exhortations to Churchmen
to look after their special interests.
The Church is a party
question, like any other; and in
the intense competition of a constitutional
country, the Church must
organise its press, like the other
institutions of the land.</p>

<p class='c012'>There is a good time coming
sure enough, and the cause of its
coming is easily understood. The
Conservative party are superior
alike in sincerity and in statesmanlike
ability to the party which has
so long prided itself in the advocacy
of organic changes. Moreover,
they represent the normal feeling
of Englishmen. Conservatism is
the distinguishing feature of the
British character. The public of
this country has no love for those
theoretic ideals of government,
those paper-constitutions, which
have so often fascinated and brought
misery upon other nations. The
reign of Innovation is ever short-lived
with us; and the supremacy
of the party who represent that
principle must be equally transitory.
The Whig party, who became
champions of innovation in
order to regain the power which they
had lost, now find that their old
vantage-ground has slipped from
under them. They have had their
day as rough-hewers of the Constitution,
and now give place again
to the more masterly artists who
know how to chisel the marble
while preserving the lineaments of
the noble design. This natural
decline of the Reform party has
been rendered more inevitable by
the very efforts they have made
to maintain themselves in power.
Everything portends the speedy ascendancy
of the Conservative party
in Parliament; and the leaders of
the party are the very men to lend to
such a cause the lustre of personal
renown. Derby, Malmesbury, Disraeli,
Bulwer Lytton, Pakington,
Walpole, Stanley, Cairns, Whiteside,
are names of which any party and
any cause might be proud. They
have the advantage of years, too,
on their side; for, compared with
their rivals, they are all in the
vigour of life, and in the prime of
states-manhood. The tide of public
opinion has long been rising in
their favour, and they have not
long to wait. They are strong, and
therefore are calm; they are patriotic,
and will not imitate the
factious tactics of their rivals. But
their final success is at hand; and
their triumph will be all the more
glorious, inasmuch as it promises
to partake less of the character of
a party-victory, than of an ovation
offered to them by the whole enlightened
classes of the community.</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c006'>
    <div><span class='small'><em>Printed by William Blackwood &#38; Sons, Edinburgh.</em></span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c019'>
<div class='footnote' id='f1'>
<p class='c012'><a href='#r1'>1</a>. ‘La Vie de Village en Angleterre; ou, Souvenirs d’un Exile.’ Paris: Didier. 1862.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f2'>
<p class='c012'><a href='#r2'>2</a>. ‘Vie Moderne en Angleterre.’ Par Hector Malot.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f3'>
<p class='c012'><a href='#r3'>3</a>. ‘Studies in Roman Law; with Comparative Views of the Laws of France, England,
and Scotland.’ By Lord Mackenzie, one of the Judges of the Court of Session
in Scotland. W. Blackwood &#38; Sons. 1862.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f4'>
<p class='c012'><a href='#r4'>4</a>. I should add that, since writing the above, one day my eye was attracted by
the unusual number of people (there were nine) reading one of the royal decrees
just promulgated and placarded on the wall: it concerned the uniform of subordinate
officials.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f5'>
<p class='c012'><a href='#r5'>5</a>. The ‘Chiacchiera’ of 3d January.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f6'>
<p class='c012'><a href='#r6'>6</a>. ‘<span lang="fr">Relations Politiques de la France et de l’Espagne avec l’Ecosse au xvi<sup>e</sup> Siècle—Papiers
d’état, Pièces, et Documents inedits ou peu connus, tirés des Bibliothêques
et des Archives de France. Publiés par Alexandre Teulet, Archiviste aux Archives
de l’Empire.</span>’ Nouvelle edition, 5 vols. Paris: Renouard. Edinburgh: Williams
&#38; Norgate.</p>

<p class='c012'><span lang="fr">‘Les Ecossais en France—Les Français en Ecosse.’ Par Francisque Michel,
Correspondant de l’Institut de France, &#38;c. &#38;c. 2 vols. London: Trübner &#38; Co.</span></p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f7'>
<p class='c012'><a href='#r7'>7</a>. See the cessation of church-building in Scotland brought out in a well-known
article in the ‘Quarterly Review’ for July 1849, on the Churches and Abbeys of
Scotland, understood to be from the pen of Mr Joseph Robertson.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f8'>
<p class='c012'><a href='#r8'>8</a>. See the article on ‘Baronial and Ecclesiastical Antiquities of Scotland,’ in the
Magazine for August 1850.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f9'>
<p class='c012'><a href='#r9'>9</a>. Article, ‘The French on Queen Mary,’ Magazine for November 1859.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f10'>
<p class='c012'><a href='#r10'>10</a>. ‘The Invasion of the Crimea: Its Origin, and an Account of its Progress down
to the Death of Lord Raglan.’ By Alexander William Kinglake. 2d Edition.
William Blackwood and Sons, Edinburgh and London.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f11'>
<p class='c012'><a href='#r11'>11</a>. The ‘Daily News.’</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f12'>
<p class='c012'><a href='#r12'>12</a>. ‘Church and State Review,’ art. ‘Practical Politics.’</p>
</div>

<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c007'>
</div>
<div class='tnotes x-ebookmaker'>

<div class='chapter ph2'>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c008'>
    <div>TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES</div>
  </div>
</div>

</div>

<table class='table0'>
  <tr>
    <th class='c020'>Page</th>
    <th class='c020'>Changed from</th>
    <th class='c021'>Changed to</th>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c022'><a href='#t279'>279</a></td>
    <td class='c023'>were not long absent. Whey they</td>
    <td class='c024'>were not long absent. When they</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c022'><a href='#t320'>320</a></td>
    <td class='c023'>a <em>cause celèbre</em> now depending. We</td>
    <td class='c024'>a <em>cause célèbre</em> now depending. We</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c022'><a href='#t372'>372</a></td>
    <td class='c023'>the <em>coup d’êtat</em>. The claims of St</td>
    <td class='c024'>the <em>coup d’état</em>. The claims of St</td>
  </tr>
</table>

  <ul  class='ul_1'>
    <li>Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.

    </li>
    <li>Used numbers for footnotes, placing them all at the end of the last chapter.
    </li>
  </ul>

</div>

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